


Someone You Have To Let In

by Arsenic



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Background Relationships, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, D/s, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, WIP Big Bang, discussion of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Basically a horribly sideways BDSM-AU where Talia actually raises Jason from the dead to use him to get Damian to safety.  If you're looking for super indulgent h/c, I got your back.  If you're not, this is probably not the fic for you.





	1. Hurt You Too Deep

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Huge thanks to the mods over at WIPBang for getting me to pull my shit together and finish this puppy, you guys are the best.
> 
> 2\. Unbelievable amounts of love to TLC for betaing despite not really having any interest in the fandom, and making this story SO much better. So much.
> 
> 3\. Canon notes: it's an AU, but to some extent is premised on pre-52 canon.
> 
> 4\. I came into the fandom through fabula_rasa and a lot of the stuff in here is bordering on plain out stolen, because she's a genius.
> 
> 5\. Using for the "rape/non-con" square on my hc_bingo card.
> 
> 6\. Sorry I've had to enable comment moderation.

"Yes, Mistress." Jason grits the words out. He's close enough to the surface to know how badly he wishes to fight Talia's control, close enough to know how pointless his struggles are. 

Talia knows. Jason can hear it in her voice, the way she says, "Now, _now,_ little pigeon," she drawls out the nickname, a reminder of his status amongst the Robins—the street vermin pretender—"obedience for the sake of obedience does not a good sub make it, does it?"

Jason just barely manages to curtail his own whimper. He suspects he wouldn't be able to if it were only that he didn't want to give her that. Thankfully, Talia doesn’t like him to make sounds when he's down, so the desire to please—and Jason might be a cheap, needy sub, but nobody has ever been able to fault his true drive to please—keeps him silent in this instance. It's a small victory, for all it's a loss, too.

Fighting himself so hard is making his head hurt. His stomach is a ball of acid. He should just give in, be her good little sub. It would be easier. He'd feel better. He—shouldn't he get to feel better? Just for a little while?

She crouches so that if he were allowed to look up from the floor, they'd be at eye level. Well, no, he'd be slightly taller. It's like a joke, this tall, terribly strong body he's grown into. The muscle she's trained onto him, the skill she's burned into his bones. Useless. 

He can't even get off his knees. The rice has long since cut into them. There's blood seeping into the dirt floor. He'll be blamed for that later, as well. Jason wishes he was at least allowed to lose himself in the pain of it, but she's speaking, Talia, _Mistress_ is giving him instruction, and for all his inadequate, futile straining against his own weak nature, Jason well knows that until she releases him from the enforced subspace, all that will matter is what she wants to matter. Her willpower is his world.

The rice isn't even a damn punishment. It's one of her myriad ways of forcing him down, reminding him exactly what he is. A devalued sub. The pigeon who couldn't even manage to do what pigeons do best: survive. 

He keeps his eyes on the ground and listens to her instructions. The past few days have made it clear what these couple of years of honing the skills that Bruce taught him, training new ones into him have been about. He's been an insurance policy, evidently, one that has come due.

She stands and says, "If you fail, little pigeon, believe me when I tell you what the Joker did will seem a pleasant diversion."

Jason keeps his eyes on the ground and says, "Yes, Mistress," not even bothering to hide the dull resignation in his voice. She can order him not to fail in his service all she wants. There are some things even a Dom cannot will into being. The success of one Jason Peter Todd at anything might be at the very top of that list.

*

Bruce is one of three people Hal has ever gone down for in his life. Well, consensually. The drill instructor later court martialed for "dynamic manipulation," (or as Hal likes to call it, mind rape) and Sinestro, do not, and will not, ever count, not to Hal. Doms who have to use drugs, coercion techniques, or extra-terrestrial artifacts to force a sub down are not deserving of the term Dom.

The first was his mom, but that's also kind of negligible. Studies show that close to seventy-five percent of parents use subspace to help sub kids with all sorts of things, including nightmares, anxiety, and run-of-the-mill focus. Subs whose parents can successfully get them down with some regularity have much more success at handling neurodiversity issues along the lines of ADD and social anxiety.

His mom used it at the suggestion of the therapist she got for him and his brothers upon their father's death. The two of them would schedule "down time" once a week—twice, if things were really rough—until he hit fifteen, and could center himself in similar ways on his own.

The second was Carol. It has never been sexual between them. Rather, Hal trusts her, and while Hal is far enough toward the center of the dynamic spectrum that he doesn't _need_ someone to take him down, having it done now and then sure as hell helps.

Bruce is the only romantic partner Hal has ever allowed it with, though. Hal's not sure if that's because he's stupidly in love with Bruce or because Bruce never once asked, never even hinted, just had balls-to-the-wall fights and scorchingly hot sex with Hal that thoroughly and wholly ignored their dynamic. In fact, when Hal had finally made up his mind that it was something he wanted, when he'd finally gathered every stray bit of courage he had to say to Bruce, "I'd kind of like it, if we could dynamic-play," Bruce had blinked and said, "Of course," in the tone of voice he got when something had effectively blindsided him. Like he'd forgotten Hal was a sub.

They don't always engage in dynamic-play when they sleep together. Actually, it's more the exception than the rule, because Bruce has a thing about doing things "right," and that means he takes his time getting Hal into that place where he can honestly let go and fly. It means Bruce takes his time bringing Hal back out of it, too.

Hal well knows how bad being forced down can be, how it can stay in a sub's bones, the pit of his stomach, linger as a phantom ache in the chest, for years afterward. But he also knows how completely pure a dynamic exchange with someone can be. With Bruce, he was finally willing to risk the former for the chance at the latter.

*

Jason's relieved his code to the Batcavecave still works. It will make all of this much easier. He's never been sure if Damian is mostly silent because Talia and Ra's raised him that way, taking advantage of personality patterns that would have been evident even before his dynamic presented, or if he's just a quiet kid. It doesn't matter. What matters is that it won't be a problem to slip into the cavecave with Damian, leave him with the note from Talia—which no doubt says something like "surprise, you have a five year old, he's a sub, pretty sure dad was going to kill him or keep him in a drugged stupor to turn him into a living murderbot, hope you can do better"—and get the fuck out.

Or, well, at least it shouldn't be a problem. Sometimes Jason forgets that nothing ever goes his way.

It's eleven in the morning. All good Bats and Birds should be asleep after patrolling, or, at the very least, out proving to the rest of the world that they're completely harmless wastrels or wards of wastrels. There shouldn't be anyone in the cavecave, except possibly Alfred, who occasionally slips down at odd hours to tidy up. He hopes, for once in his life, to get lucky.

Of course, that doesn't happen. Not only is someone there, it's someone who is not Alfred. No, it's a slip of a boy Jason has never seen. He's still in costume, and maybe it's not the one Jason wore, but he knows who the kid is: his replacement. Talia made good and sure Jason knew he was a mistake on Bruce's part, the two-cent whore sub in the right place at the right time. _Of course_ Bruce corrected course, righted the batship, as it were.

The kid, who's out of his mask, is holding a batarang in each hand, poised for action. Jason ignores him, bending down to where he's at Damian's eye-level. He says, "Hey kid, you'll be safe here."

Jason desperately hopes it's the truth. Jason hopes it's the truth because the only other option is to take Damian on the run from Talia and Ra's, and Jason is well trained, but he's not willing to bet he's skilled enough to evade two of the top assassins in the world. Even alone it would be hard. With a five year old? Damian's may be quiet and quick and more than a little bit deadly already, but he's still a child.

No, this is Damian's best bet. Bruce won't abuse him, Jason knows that, and that will have to be enough. He stands, and the other boy, Timothy Drake, of the Gotham Drakes—as Talia had laughingly, disdainfully called the newest Robin—says, "You're Jason. Jesus, you're—"

Jason doesn't wait for his replacement to finish the sentence. He tears a page out of the Batbook, drops a smoke pellet, and makes his exit. He's done what he was resurrected to do. Time to figure out what the hell to do with himself now.

*

Tim has the Batcavecave vent the smoke within seconds, but it's already too late. Jason, if that's who it really was—it _looked_ like a more grown version with a weird skunk thing happening in his hair—is gone, and it's not even clear which exit he took. Tim has to tamp down on the urge to start searching, since, at the moment, he's got another priority.

He looks down at the kid standing exactly where he was when maybe!Jason—who, for the record, should be dead, according to all the rules of the universe—disappeared, holding a letter in his hands. It's in an envelope, fancy card stock, with curving letters spelling out "Mr. Wayne" on the front.

Tim takes a second to regain his bearings and then says, "I'm Tim. I—you seem to have a letter for Bruce."

The kid, who has the most solemn expression Tim has ever seen on anyone, _even_ Bruce, nods once and says, "Father."

Tim blinks. He needs more coffee. Possibly a Five Hour Energy, some Mountain Dew, a few shots of Red Bull, and an ounce of cocaine. He'll make do with the coffee. "Right, ah. Let's—let's go find Alfred."

Tim will do just about anything for Bruce and his alter ego, really he will. Explaining he has a brand-new kindergartenish-aged kid is just a step too far, though. That is completely, one hundred and ten percent, what Alfred is for.

*

Hal has gotten good at reading precisely what Defcon level Wayne Manor is at before having to actually speak to anyone inside. He can't explain it, but there are certain types of silence that pervade the house, and they all, each and every one, mean different things. When Hal reaches the kitchen without having seen anyone, even Alfred, he suspects he might have missed the beginning of a thermonuclear war.

He grabs a glass of water and a bag of mixed nuts from the kitchen and goes to find Bruce. He's in the second place Hal checks, his study. He's got a sleeping child on his lap and is holding onto a piece of paper. Hal just manages to stop himself from making a flippant comment about the kid being a little young, even for a Robin. And only manages because Bruce's expression is terrifyingly blank. 

Thankfully, very little about Bruce still terrifies Hal. Also, he's never been much of one to give in to fear. He gestures at the kid and asks, "Long day?"

Bruce just hands the piece of paper to Hal. It's nice, hefty paper. Stationary, Hal thinks. The writing on it is script, flowing and feminine, but there's also something odd about it. When his eyes dart down to the signature at the bottom, he realizes he's seeing the hesitancy of someone who learned Latinate lettering later in life.

He goes back up and starts at the beginning. When he's finished, he takes a seat in the other chair that faces the fireplace. "He's yours, huh?"

Bruce blinks slowly, almost long enough for it to be him closing his eyes, but not quite. "It's not that I don't think she would lie to me. She would, in a second. But the timing checks out and he—well."

 _Looks like a miniature version of you,_ Hal finishes silently. He can only see about half the kid's face, the rest smashed against Bruce's chest, but that much is obvious. "He's a sub."

"He goes down at the drop of a hat. He must have presented early, Ra's had him long enough to train that into him. I don't think he'd have let me hold him this evening, he's—self-contained, I guess, is the best word for it—except I accidentally ordered him to eat something at dinner and he spent half an hour down until I could coax him back up, at which point, he dropped immediately." Bruce's jaw tightens so much it has to hurt. 

Hal doesn't mean to make a noise, he doesn't, but sub drop is terrible as an adult, when you can identify it and know that it will pass or might even have some coping techniques for it. As a child, it feels like punishment for trying your best. And Hal can take a wild guess that nobody has ever helped this kid through his drops.

"Yes," Bruce says in response to the mewl-like sound that had come out of Hal of its own accord. "He fell asleep while I was trying to get him leveled out."

Hal gives himself a moment to breathe. "He's very young. The damage isn't irreparable. Alfred will help, I'll help, he'll be a healthy kid in no time."

For the first time that evening, Bruce looks over at him. "You've never wanted children."

They've never spoken about this, but Bruce, for all his failings at understanding the basics of other humans, is very good at piecing together the larger picture of one's life choices. There's no point in Hal lying, so he says, "No. I—patience isn't my strong suit, and I saw what mom went through, trying to raise us on her own. And fuck, what if it was a girl? I've existed primarily in homosocial cultures since I was eighteen."

Bruce's lips curl ever so slightly. Hal huffs in response. "But I've never for a moment regretted becoming someone Tim can come to when he needs to talk about the sub elements of dual-dynamics, or Cass's cuddle-bud, or being the person Dick conspires with against you."

"It's different, he's five. Tim was already fourteen by the time we—" Bruce waves his free hand. They don't label what they are. It works for both of them.

It's hard to tell, but Hal thinks Bruce might be in a state that on anyone else would be called "wigging the fuck out." Hal stands and walks over to Bruce, before sinking to his knees, resting his head on Bruce's thigh. For all the trouble they've had with words, all the ways in which they've fought, strangely, Hal has always trusted himself to Bruce in this way, even when his intellectual mind was telling him it was the worst idea in a lifetime of terrible, no good, very bad ideas. In general, Bruce likes the challenge of getting Hal to submit, and Hal likes giving him that challenge. But sometimes—sometimes this is what Bruce _needs_ , and Hal might be a supposedly shitty sub in a bunch of ways, but the first person who even thinks he can't be what Bruce needs when he needs it is going to meet a fiery green death.

Bruce puts a hand in Hal's hair, and in the space of a breath, Hal can feel some of the tension funnel out of him. Bruce murmurs, "Hal," his voice sounding wrecked.

"'m here," Hal says.

"There's something else," Bruce says after a pause long enough that Hal is admittedly halfway to sleeping. 

He forces his eyes open. "Mm?"

"Tim says he's pretty sure Jason brought him. And…and the footage of the cavecave makes it seem likely."

Hal is one hundred percent awake now. Unfortunately, what comes out of his mouth is, "He, uh, wouldn't be the first person we've known to flip death the bird."

Bruce stills for a second and Hal's about to walk that back when Bruce laughs. It's stifled, and unusually high pitched for him, but there's amusement in it. He sobers to say, "Talia had him. If it is him. Talia—she would have put him in the Pit. And then used that weakening of his barriers and his need for going down to…" Bruce shakes his head. "I can't begin to imagine where his mind's at right now. The fact that he didn't stay, didn't even—"

There's a second where Hal's world stutters. Jason was—is?—a sub. He knows exactly why Bruce has never let on about that, the things that are said about both Batman and Bruce and their tendency to work with or adopt male children are horrid enough without adding that type of fuel to the fire. And none of the League's caped personas has ever divulged that type of information to the public. Hal's well aware the only reason he's able to keep the ring is because the Guardians don't have dynamics—or, you know, sex—and trust Mogo and the rings to know who is right. Even Superman's adynamic status is hushed up; never mind that Kryptonians don't have dynamics as a species. 

It definitely explains why Talia would have chosen the route of resurrecting Jason over many simpler ways of delivering their child to Bruce, if not how she knew that Jason was a sub. Subs are not nearly as easy to manipulate as conservatives would have the world believe, but if a dom is capable of forcing a sub's acquiesence, either through chemical alteration or abuse, there's not a hell of a lot the sub is going to be able to say ‘no’ to, once trained up. And even if Jason had fought her, which seemed fairly likely for a number of reasons, Talia is and has always been a force to be reckoned with. Hal's one of the most lackadaisical, back-talking, insubordinant subs and he's not willing to place bets she couldn't have managed to get him down. It might have been ugly, but Talia's never exactly shied from ugly.

 _You'll raise him as his own man,_ she'd written of Damian in her letter. She's not wrong. Hal's maybe a little surprised to find she cares, but sometimes maternal instinct will do miraculous things.

Jason is probably something they need to talk about, particularly given that, if it _is_ him, having finished Talia's task, he's probably dropping and vulnerable. But Bruce has got a new kid to worry about at the moment, and Hal really doesn't want to add to that load. Presumably, Jason has the survival skills to get himself somewhere safe for the moment.

Hal brings a hand up to squeeze Bruce's thigh. "We'll find him. We'll find him, we'll make sure it's really him, and then we'll figure it out. He's not irreparable either."

Bruce doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Hal sighs. "Yeah, okay, it'll be my job to be the optimist in this situation. You know, because changing things up now and then is a good plan."

It gets Bruce to snort. "Yeah, change is good for the soul."

*

With the transport options Jason has, it will take over an hour, probably closer to two, from the time he leaves the Batcavecave, to get to reliable shelter outside of Gotham. He might have that much time before the drop, maybe. And without Talia there to bookend the command he's carried out, to reassure him he's done well, done as he should have, there _will_ be drop. If he doesn't get somewhere he can be safe before it begins, things will go from "a little hairy," to "more than mildly disastrous," and Jason's not willing to take that chance.

His drops have always been a little hard. On the Kinsey dynamic scale, where zero is the absolute subbiest sub a subby sub can be, he's probably edging into negative one territory when it comes to his desire to please and the way his body chemically reacts to things like subspace and subdrop. 

The difficulty of his drops before the Pit has nothing on them after it. Before he could at least function. Make himself eat, remind himself it would pass, manage to sleep a little.

Now it's closer to a psychotic break. He just…loses himself. A lot of the times, he's back with Joker, artificially shoved into subspace with push-venom (which is calculated to take down Doms), his own nature discovered and used against him, being forced to beg politely for each crushing blow, commanded to count and thank the psycho after each one. Sometimes he's in the dark of the coffin, struggling to get out, his fingers split open almost to the knuckles from his efforts. Sometimes he's with the first client his dad ever sold him to, the one who taught him that both subspace and subdrop were to be feared, and that Jason could sometimes resist neither.

He’d learned, in the countless times Talia had used drop as punishment, that if he's lucky, it only lasts a few hours and he can get himself rehydrated and sleep it off in six to eight more. If he's not lucky he comes to somewhere around two days later, and it takes fighting off bouts of dizziness and sickness to get an IV line in himself so he can crash for the next twenty-four or so hours. Even then he'll wake up nauseated and weak from hunger. It usually takes another day after that to really get back up to fighting speed.

He can't risk being on the road either way. Instead he uses some of the last of the cash Talia supplied him with and rents a storage unit. A hotel room, or anything with a bathroom, would be preferable, but he can't risk that. Those places always have thin walls and lots of people around, and Jason knows he screams sometimes when he's in drop. It's evident in the rawness of his throat afterward.

He sets out a number of flashlights with new batteries in them, so he at least won't be in the dark. He drinks a couple of bottles of water, and layers on a few sweatshirts. It's early December, and Gotham gets cold in October, latest. The storage unit isn't temperature controlled.

He curls up on his side and closes his eyes. He won't sleep through it, he's tried on numerous occasions, but sometimes it helps to be a little rested before it hits. He can take care of himself. He never should have allowed himself to believe he might not have to.

*

As it turns out, Hal doesn't have to bring up the Jason issue, because after an hour, Alfred calls up quietly from the cave, "Master Bruce, Miss Gordon believes she has located our missing bird."

Bruce draws a slow breath in through his nose. "Is Tim still out with Dick?"

There's a pause before Alfred says, "Indeed. Misstress Cassandra and Miss Brown have joined them as well."

Bruce nods. "See if Dick, Cass, and Steph can handle things on their own and if Tim can head back here."

"I am capable of watching a sleeping child on my own, you realize?" Alfred's tone is the definition of mild.

Hal smirks. Bruce says, equally mildly, "I want Tim here in case I need your help when we return."

"Ah," Alfred says. "I'll inquire into the matter."

Bruce takes Damian into their bedroom, tucking him into the king bed. Damian stirs a bit, but settles when Bruce hems him in with pillows. Hal has never thought about the fact that Bruce has always known how to make him feel safely confined. He always just assumed Bruce slept around enough and used his powers of observation to have built up decent skills. Now, watching him with Damian, Hal thinks Bruce probably learned most of it with Jason.

It puts a different spin on things.

Hal follows Bruce and slides into the passenger side of his Escalade. Babs has sent the coordinates to the car's nav system. It's only about a thirty minute ride before they pull up in front of a storage rental place. Hal has a decidedly bad feeling about this.

The place is closed for the night, but that's not so much an issue for either of them. Babs will have already disabled whatever security cameras there are. Once they're inside it's easy enough, if horrifying, to follow the screams. Bruce breaks into a flat run, and Hal doesn't hesitate to follow. The two of them yank the door to the unit nearly off its tracks in their haste to get inside.

The scene inside is like something out of Hal's nightmares, so he can't even begin to imagine what it's like for Bruce. The scent of urine is sharp, filling the unit. Jason's curled in a ball, ripping his own skin from his arms, alternating between screaming, "please, _please_ " and moaning. Hal can't help the, "Jesus," that escapes from his mouth.

Bruce doesn't hesitate. He crosses to Jason, setting down the bag Alfred had placed in the car while they were putting Damian in bed. He says, "Sh, Jason, it's all right, you did well, you were a good boy."

He's got one hand on the back of Jason's neck, the other is holding a water bottle with a straw component to Jason's lips. "Take a sip for me, okay? I just want you to take one sip."

Jason's not screaming anymore, but his eyes are still wide and unfocused. He hasn't stopped gouging himself, and his breath hitches with tiny whines. Bruce keeps talking. "It's just water. You've worked hard, and you need some water, so I want you to take a sip."

Jason is rocking himself, forcefully pushing himself back into the hand Bruce has on him. It's a little disorienting, partially because all of the pictures Hal has seen of the kid show him as considerably smaller than he's become, and partially because he _is_ so large and yet everything about his body language screams that he's trying to make himself smaller.

Hal sits down in the hall. He can still see them, but it takes him out of the room, gives them the illusion of space. Jason finally lowers his head to the straw for a sip, and Bruce says, "That's right, good, that's good, Jason. How about another sip? I would like you to take another sip for me."

When Bruce has gotten Jason to drink about a cup of water, he breaks out a baggie with orange slices in it, and feeds it, slice by slice, to Jason, reassuring him the entire time that he's doing exactly what Bruce wants him to. 

After the orange, he coaxes Jason into drinking some more water before setting the bottle aside and carefully, slowly, pulling Jason against his chest. Hal holds his breath. Whatever trauma Jason's experiencing through the drop could make this get violent pretty quickly. Subs in a drop that deep might as well be on drugs. And they can have the fury, strength, and unexpected responses of someone who's high.

Jason does finally let his arms drop to his sides, and Hal stiffens, but instead of using them to defend himself, Jason goes limp against Bruce's chest, his breathing beginning to even out. Bruce holds him loosely in place, running a hand through his hair, and repeating phrases like, "That's it, you're so good, such a good sub," until Jason crumples entirely, having fallen asleep.

Bruce takes one hand off of him for a moment to dig in his pocket and toss the keys to Hal. "Gonna need you to drive."

He slips the bag back over his shoulder and then stands, lifting Jason in a bridal hold like the guy weighs nothing. Jason's hands fly to Bruce's shirt and bunch in, but he doesn't seem to wake and there's no indication that he meant to cause harm.

Hal turns and leads the way back to the car.

*

Once they're back at the Manor, Hal follows as Bruce heads to one of the guest rooms, well-outfitted and comfortable and largely without any real personality—or baggage. Bruce carries Jason into the attached bathroom and sets him on the toilet, holding him upright. To Hal he says, "I want to get him cleaned up before I put him in the bed. I'd really like to see if I can get him to eat and drink more, but—"

"One step at a time," Hal says quietly, because Bruce is tense from the tips of his hair to his damn toenails. He puts a hand on the small of Bruce's back and says, "I'm gonna warm up the water. You get him out of his clothes."

The fact that Jason wakes up while being stripped is pretty predictable, as is his simultaneous attempt to kick Bruce in the balls while cowering and apologizing. Jason's fast, so the kick still lands, but Bruce has gotten himself far enough back that the impact is limited, and the second Jason's tucked himself up, Bruce is there, reminding him that he's doing well and explaining that all he wants is to get Jason clean, and he would like it very much if Jason could help him with that. For subs who experience this kind of drop—Hal's thankfully not one, his problems with drop are more than enough to be going on with—the need for approval inside the drop is overwhelming. But Jason's been trained in his regular, non-drop mind, to defend and protect himself. Those warring instincts are probably making him want to bleach his own brain at this point.

Bruce flows with it, which tells Hal this isn’t the first time he's done this with Jason. He's starting to suspect Bruce has kept a few other things about Jason off everyone's radar. He can't even bother to be hurt. For one thing: Bruce. For another, it's actually kind of reassuring that Bruce has never said word one about Jason being a sub or having vulnerabilities that are sub-specific.

Jason says, "Dirty," slowly and then nods and repeats, "Dirty."

There's a tone to it that sets Hal's teeth on edge. Bruce clearly isn't a fan either. He says, "You were on the floor, Jason, the floor was dirty. We just want to rinse you off a bit and put you in some clothes that haven't been on the floor."

Hal glances over to see Jason level a straight glance at Bruce, one that's clearly not seeing anything really in front of him, and say, "I'm dirty, Master."

Bruce swallows. Quietly, and without any real hope of being heard, if his tone is any indication, he says, "It's Bruce, Jason."

Jason just shucks his clothing, obedient now that he's been told the endgame. He steps under the spray and even soaps himself up. Bruce turns to Hal and asks, "Can you run and grab a pair of my pajamas? He's not quite my size, but should be close enough."

Hal slips out. Once he's in their room, he checks to make sure Damian is still sleeping. He is, clinging like a monkey to one of the pillows. Hal grabs the first pair of flannel pants and soft t-shirt he finds in Bruce's Taj Mahal of a closet, and heads back to the guest room, where Bruce has gotten Jason out of the shower and is drying him off with a series of gigantic cotton towels. Jason is standing still for it, open to Bruce.

Bruce takes the sleep clothes from Hal and helps Jason into them before herding him toward the bed. He gets Jason tucked in before crossing to the other side, and lying down atop the covers. Jason lets out a shuddering exhale, clearly having believed he was going to be left alone again.

Hal leans down to steal a kiss from Bruce and says, "I'm gonna go watch over your other surprise-child."

Bruce fists a hand in Hal's shirt and holds him in place for another kiss. He nips at Hal's lower lip, not a bite, nothing painful, but it's a clear claim-stake. Hal grins against his mouth, "Yeah, yeah, I'm yours."

Bruce growls, and doesn't release Hal for another few seconds, as if to make his point perfectly clear. Hal doesn't pull away, either.

*

Jason wakes up to a pounding headache and the awareness, even with his eyes closed, that he is _not_ where he was when he went into drop. He's lying on a soft surface, there's no smell of dust and mildew, and he's warm.

He tries to piece things together. He was delirious, he remembers…he remembers a waking nightmare about Bruce not having taken him home that night on the street. And then—oh. Shit.

He opens his eyes to find himself less than two feet from a sleeping Bruce Wayne. The rest of the drop comes back in fragmented pieces, but he knows exactly where he is and how he got here. What he doesn't know is how Bruce found him, or why the hell he'd bring Jason back here. Or what to do next.

He closes his eyes again to give himself some mental room, a little space to think. Talia _showed_ Jason how Joker is still alive, and Jason has seen his replacement standing in front of him. Bruce obviously neither feels particularly strongly about his death, nor needs him, so why would he—

The answer comes with a rush of nausea and he finds his eyes flying open, himself saying aloud, "The offer's not still open."

Bruce, who probably hasn't been sleeping since Jason first woke, doesn't even twitch. "What offer?"

"The one I made the night we met."

 _That_ gets Bruce's eyes to open, and there's a glint of pure steel that's more Batman than Bruce. "That offer will never be open to anyone ever again if I have a single, solitary thing to say about it."

Jason doesn't really think before saying, "You don't. Have a single fucking thing to say about it."

Bruce's expression doesn't change, not really, he's too self-contained for that, but he says, "Jason," and Jason might be eight miles past pissed, but he can hear the broken notes in that single word. He blinks.

His mouth is dry, but he forces himself to swallow. Just because Bruce has some regret about Jason's fate when they're face to face doesn't change the hard facts of the situation. Bruce let Joker live and found someone better than Jason. "Don't. You did your good deed. You can get back to your socially acceptable kids. Or at least blood-related ones."

Jason wants to get out of the bed, pull his clothes on, steal one of Bruce's bikes and move on with his life. He's pretty sure if he tries even the first he'll fall on his ass, and that's not really the impression he's looking to make. Fucking drops. Fucking brain chemistry. Just…fuck. Everything. Bruce Wayne and his orphan-collecting most of all.

Bruce says, in that careful, measured way of his—it makes Jason want to punch him—"I feel like I've come into this conversation halfway through it."

"World's greatest detective and you can't put the missing pieces together?" Jason just manages to inject the question with spite. Sure, he's slept in a bed with a fluid drip, but even after an ideal drop he's tired. This drop wasn't precisely ideal from start to finish.

"I—" Bruce's eyes narrow. "Maybe not, but I know this: I don't care what society thinks of my kids, have never cared, will never care. And Damian's blood does not make him any more my child than you or Dick or Tim or Cass."

Jason watches him for a moment, but Bruce's gaze never breaks. Jason doesn't have it in himself to do anything other than laugh. He's not amused, but he's got better things to be doing than arguing about whether he matters to someone he doesn't matter to. Carefully, he rolls off the bed and stands. "Sure."

"We're not—"

"Finished?" Jason snaps. "Yeah, we are. We were the moment you graciously took a second to bury the street-hooker sub kid you swept in out of Crime Alley, and then couldn't be fucked to actually take care of his murderer. We were super double triple finished the second you didn't skip a beat before finding someone a little more Dom to slip into the costume like I'd never been there."

"No," Bruce says.

Jason looks over at him, not even bothering to hide his incredulity. "No? Really? That's-- Actually, I'm not sure why I'm surprised at the asinine nature of that response. Please go fuck yourself on a rusty chainsaw without passing go for a tetanus shot."

Before he knows what has happened—Bruce was _just_ on the other side of the bed—Bruce is in his space and Jason instinctually loses his shit at having a Dom the size of a Mack truck in his personal sphere. Which is mostly why he lashes out with an elbow to Bruce's face and a knee to his groin. He can't one hundred percent say it wasn't subconsciously for the pleasure of it.

Bruce, because he's a complete douchecanoe, doesn't even have the decency to go to his knees, like any reasonable man would. Instead he takes a step back and wheezes out, "Right, that—sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

Jason honestly can't explain why the words just make him _snap_. Maybe it's the way they acknowledge how broken he is, or that Bruce is being kind when it can no longer help. He doesn't know and it doesn't matter. He just _goes _for Bruce.__

__It's not a fair fight. Even with all of his extra training, it's never going to be between them, and certainly not with Jason coming off a drop. Which is why it makes no sense that he has to be dragged off of Bruce by a giant green fist of literal willpower. Bruce is just lying there, nose clearly broken, probably further damage, and Green Lantern is saying, "Jesus, fuck," his construct holding Jason tight, but strangely, not so tight as to hurt._ _

__Jason finds himself hyperventilating and forces even breaths, coming down from the adrenaline of pure emotion. He pushes a little at the construct, but he's not really trying to get free of it. He looks down at where Bruce is sitting up now, a quelling hand on Lantern, watching Jason._ _

__Jason says, "I—I probably shouldn't have done that." Bruce raises an eyebrow by way of challenge. Jason says, "But it felt fucking fantastic."_ _

__Lantern, whose presence is kind of weird when Jason thinks about it, barks out a laugh. Bruce looks at the two of them and murmurs something that might be, "I'm completely fucked."_ _


	2. Pull You Up Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason wakes up and plans his next moves. None of the family are big fans of his choices.

It's not that Hal condones domestic violence, because that is not a thing he supports. But outside of dire crises or when they're engaging in dynamic exchange—and sometimes, even in those situations—he can't exactly say he hasn't wanted to kick Bruce's ass every third day or so for most of their acquaintance. The frustration is part of what keeps them engaged in each other. Hal doesn't doubt for a second that Bruce thinks about kicking him in the face now and then.

The thing is, they don't. Neither of them has ever raised a hand to the other in the midst of an argument. There are certain lines they both know exist and cannot be crossed. That's one of them.

Kids, Hal thinks, might be different. Especially kids who die and come back from the dead. There's gotta be some unwritten rule that that changes all the other rules. Still, nobody's beating the crap out of Bruce while Hal sits back and watches, not even if Bruce is clearly allowing it to happen. Just, nope.

Once Jason appears to have settled, Hal lets the construct drop. He holds out his hand and says, "So, hi, I'm Hal. You're a tire thief, I hear."

Jason looks at Hal, then at Bruce. "Really? Does the entire League still think you were dumb enough to take in a kid so mentally unhinged he tried to jack the Batmobile? That's the story we're sticking with?"

Bruce's forehead wrinkles the exact way it does when something Hal is doing is causing an incipient headache. "Jason."

"It is, right, okay." Jason looks back at Hal. "Sure, I'm the world's most laughable tire thief, in the flesh, back from the dead."

"O-kay," Hal says, because, yeah, there's definitely something he's missing here.

Jason cocks his head. "And Earth's first Green Lantern is a sub. Huh."

"What?" Hal asks, because it's not like he goes around advertising it, and the other members of the League have known him and Bruce are together for at least a year, and most of them assume they're just homo-dynamic, like Ollie and Dinah.

Jason doesn't miss a beat. "Bruce sleeps with other Doms, but he doesn't bring them home. It's why he has a five-year-old kid he had no idea about until yesterd— Um. What day is it?"

"Thursday," Hal says. Jason had been in drop for about eighteen hours once they'd brought him back.

"Two days ago," Jason corrects. "Point stands."

"I'm a member of the League," Hal says. "I could be here—" Hal has never seen anyone look _impolitely_ incredulous, but Jason manages it. "Yeah, okay, sub. That's not for public consumption."

"Like, I dunno, your real name?" Jason asks. He turns his attention back to Bruce. "Speaking of, thanks for mentioning that particular personality trait of mine to Talia, super appreciate your discretion in that instance."

"Jason," Bruce says, and his tone is deadly serious, "I didn't say a word to Talia about that. I didn't say a word to another human being, and before you think it, neither did Dick. However she found out, it wasn't through anyone in this house or this family, and I will submit to a Martian mind-probe to make my point about that, if necessary, as will Dick, Alfred, and anyone else you want. Anyone."

Hal watches Jason wrestle with that. The kid's got minute tremors running through his entire body. He probably feels like dog vomit between coming out of the drop and immediately expending the energy to tear into Bruce. His knuckles are already bruising. Softly, Hal says, "Let's go eat something. Damian's asked about you twice since you left. You can show him you're okay, and make some decisions when you're not working on negative amounts of blood sugar."

Jason frowns. "Damian's asked about me?"

"Yes," Hal says. Cass, Tim, and Dick have actually all found the kid searching the Manor for Jason once apiece now. It's what he does when left to himself for more than thirty seconds.

Jason looks down at his knees. Hal watches from the corner of his eye, as Bruce controls his breathing, flexes his hands once, slowly. Hal knows the feeling of wanting to touch someone, settle them with a hand to their skin, and knowing it will just make things worse. 

Jason nods, a sharp jerk of his head, and puts himself cautiously back on his feet. "Alfred's cooking, right?"

"Yeah, there's been enough blood and mayhem in his house for one day," Hal agrees.

*

Tim watches as Damian, who has only allowed Bruce to touch him, and only then while down or in drop, flinching away from every other attempted touch, runs to Jason and extends his arms to be picked up. Jason catches him in midstride and hefts him into the air, tucking the kid into his side. "Hey there, little man."

Damian doesn't say anything back, just keeps his wide, serious eyes on Jason's face, as if memorizing the features in case of a second abandonment. It's a hard look to witness on a five year old's face. Jason looks…well, like a sub after a terrible drop. Even as a dual, with less compulsion for either type of release, Tim's experienced a couple drops and seen himself in the mirror afterward. 

After a long moment, Damian leans in and whispers something in Jason's ear. Jason says, "Yeah, I bet we can make that happen," and comes fully into the room, still carrying Damian, who's not so much as wriggling.

Alfred, even though he's seen Jason—Tim knows he was the one to bring supplies to the room while Jason was in drop—looks more stoic than Tim has ever seen him, which is a sure bet he's trying not to cry. Jason, for his part, seems blustery, but his, "Alfred," is quiet and almost a question.

Alfred nods slightly and says, "Master Jason. Fiesta eggs, I believe? With extra hot sauce?"

Jason's grin is different than those of the Robin Tim caught on film. Tim can't say how precisely, but he knows it’s there. Still, it's surprisingly sweet, given his new stature, the rough, honed planes of his face. "Please. And the squirt wants your blueberry pancakes."

Damian mutters something that might be arguing his squirt status. Tim can't really make it out. Jason just musses his hair and sets him down in one of the chairs at the table where Damian sits upright and with eerily perfect posture. Jason then goes to sit in his own seat, clearly feeling the walk from the bedroom on depleted resources, but Damian fists his hand in Jason's shirt and looks at him mutinously.

Hal pushes a chair next to Damian's and Jason blinks at him, says, "Thanks," and sits.

Tim looks at Bruce, who's just come in the room, and opens his mouth to ask what happened to his _face_ , but Bruce shakes his head sharply, and Tim takes the direction. Dick wanders in a few seconds later, hair its usual morning nest, yawning and asking, "Do I smell huevos rancheros?"

He goes straight to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup, bustling quietly around Alfred to get to the brown sugar and over to the refrigerator for cream. Alfred, for his part, says, "Fiesta eggs, as that is Master Jason's favorite breakfast food."

This seems to punch through the denseness that is Dick Grayson upon waking. He turns from where he's inhaling the scent of his coffee and his eyes, formerly only half-open, widen upon seeing Jason. There's a suspended moment where Dick seems to take in this new, muscular _man_ , so different from the boy who had died, even as he's undeniably the same person. Dick's expression goes soft and then a bit confused, but in the end he smiles widely and says, "Jay! You're up!"

Tim thinks Jason probably doesn't realize he's holding onto the eating nook table like he might have to throw it at Dick. Jason says, "Crack detective work there, Grayson."

Dick, unshockingly, is having None of This. Dick has been trained, sharpened, and whetted by tougher wheels than Jason Todd. Namely, you know, Bruce Wayne. Still, Tim preps himself to intervene or possibly just squirrel Damian away from the worst of the carnage any moment now. Like the moment Dick drags Jason up from the chair he's in and into a hug.

Jason, for his part, knees Dick in the groin and backs up into a fighting stance. There's something odd about Jason's body language, something Tim can't read, almost as if he's _threatened_ by Dick's touch, and Tim's gaze flicks over to where Bruce is staying perfectly still. Hal's got his hand closed around the ring, but he's not moving. Dick is holding onto the table so he won't sink to his knees and saying, "Ow."

Alfred says, "If you please, Master Jason, not until after breakfast, and preferably away from the breakables."

Damian's got a fork in one hand and a knife in the other and doesn't show any signs of having heard Alfred. Jason turns to him and says, "Hey there, thanks for the back-up, but Alfred probably will burn your pancakes if you kill Dick. Everyone likes Dick best."

Tim feels that last sentiment land directly in his chest, so he can only imagine how it feels for Dick. Damian scowls, a miniature Bruce so perfect Tim has to wonder if maybe he's actually a clone. Jason just waits him out, and eventually he puts down the silverware and lowers himself from a crouch back into once again being a Stepford son. Jason turns back to Dick and says, with an edge of feral threat to it, "I'm not yours. You don't touch me."

Dick's face, which is too expressive at the best of times, is a picture of devastation. But all he says is, "You were never anyone's, Little Wing," and goes to get his abandoned cup of coffee.

Alfred says, "Orange juice, Master Damian?"

Damian stares at him like he's an alien for about thirty seconds, until Jason sighs and says, "I'll get it, Alf."

*

Jason eats his weight in eggs and a half of the second helping of blueberry pancakes Alfred makes for Damian. He has two glasses of orange juice, a shot of espresso, three glasses of water, and a glass of milk. At which point, he finally starts feeling human again. A shower, and he'll be good to go.

Damian is very carefully not looking at him, like he knows exactly what Jason is thinking. He might. Talia taught him all kinds of shit, and reading body language isn't a mystic art. The girl, Cass, who came down in the middle of Jason tearing through his third helping and touched her forehead to Alfred's in a silent gesture of thanks for breakfast, speaks for the first time. "You could stay."

Everyone looks over at her, which tells Jason she's not exactly a chatterbox even at the best of times. Jason's all for being a cockrocket to the Bats with whom he's familiar, and his replacement—purely on principal—but this girl seems a little like Alfred: off limits not just because you'll be killed in your sleep, but because you might as well be a full-grown Rottweiler going after a lost kitten. Given this, instead of sneering and making a rude gesture, Jason says, "Uh, thanks, but I've got…things. To do."

The worst part is, she doesn't even call him on his bullshit, like any self-respecting Bat should. She just looks a little sad and goes back to dissecting her pancake. 

Jason feels like he can't breathe. He stands. "C'mon squirt, let's go for a walk."

Damian glares at him murderously, but doesn't actually make a move to physically harm him, so Jason smirks at him and heads toward the gardens. He needs air. He gets outside and closes his eyes for a few seconds. It's cold out and he's not dressed for it, but it doesn't matter. The sharpness of the air helps center him.

"Where are you going?" Damian asks.

"To get a job," Jason tells him.

"I could come. I could get a job."

Jason doesn't laugh at him. In part, because Jason's a sub without a high school degree or even a legal Social Security Number. Damian has about as much chance of getting a job as Jason. In part, because underneath his combat-ready stance, the kid looks terrified.

Jason sits down on the lawn, the fall dew seeping through the pajama pants. He gestures Damian to come to him and when Damian does, he puts his hands on Damian's arms and says, "You're safe here, Dami, I swear. I wouldn't leave you if I thought otherwise. You father—" Jason swallows. "Your father can be…complicated, but he'll take care of you. Alf wouldn't allow for anything else. And Hal's a sub, he'll, he'll know what you need."

Damian's eyes are dry, but also too wide, in the way they go when he knows crying will just get him hit, or worse. Calmly, evenly, he says, "I hate you."

Jason nods. "That's…that's good. You hold onto that."

He walks away, then, back to the room where his stuff is. He steals some of Bruce's hot water, dresses in his own clothes, and walks out of the Manor. He's got shit to do. Yeah.

*

Jason's plan was to get as far away from Gotham as reasonably possible without any kind of papers or personal identification. It's not so much crossing borders that's an issue, but outside of the street Spanish he learned growing up and the Arabic learned under Talia's tutelage, he doesn't speak anything aside from English. And as bad as things are for subs in the English-speaking nations, they're generally worse in Arabic- and Spanish-speaking ones. There are exceptions, but, well. Jason would be taking more chances than he feels reasonable.

The plan is already fucked, in any case, because he clearly needs to check in on Damian now and again. It's not that he's worried Damian will be mistreated. It's just that Damian looked so damned betrayed and Jason…Jason doesn't have it in himself to abandon the kid wholesale.

He's not staying in Gotham, though. Like hell. He could go to Metropolis, but it's a pretty expensive city, and at the moment, Jason's got twenty-three bucks to his name. He stole it out of Hal's wallet, which was still on the nightstand when Jason went to shower. Some of it is in quarters.

Which means Blüdhaven. It's not ideal. Even aside from the fact that it's generally a shithole, there's the fact that it's Dick's city, and Dick has always and will always be the source of more feelings than Jason ever wants to feel for another person. For the moment, though, it will have to do.

Jason goes and finds himself a couple of bus-boy and dishwashing jobs at places that don't ask for an address and pay him under the table. Between the two he's got about sixty hours a week going, and sure, they pay him less than minimum wage because they can, but it's enough to rent a week-to-week SRO, buy a hot plate, and keep himself in ramen and the occasional Chef Boyardee splurge. 

It's enough that once every month or month and a half, when he's starting to feel like a meth addict who hasn't had a hit in too long, he can pay for a cheap, street-corner pro-Dom to get him down, rather than risk knocking off a pharmacy for the drugs that will work, but are also hella addictive. He wishes he could afford one of the agency Doms, the type who know how to get a sub down with basic power-play, rather than just taking their toy of choice and whaling on him, but that's not on the table at the moment.

If he were smart about it, he knows he'd swallow his worthless pride and just sell himself, get money and a subspace hit in one go, but at least when he's paying the Dom he gets a safeword and—and the part of Jason that grew up not even knowing that was a thing until Bruce took him home can't. Not yet. He's not that desperate.

He loses both jobs four months in, when the pro he picks goes too hard with a single-tail and healing up plus the drop means Jason misses shifts on both. He finds another dishwashing job and some part-time construction work, which pays a little better. 

The construction job ends and he finds an under-the-table janitorial position. He manages to go over two months before he has to shell out for a Dom again. He goes down easy, but the Dom puts him on the street still down when Jason won't come up for him. 

He comes up to the sound of escrima sticks buzzing and bones breaking. It takes a while for things to slot into place—Jason doesn't wait, joins in the fight on legs that hardly want to support him, (doesn't matter, fighting, fighting he can _do_ ) freezing in the early Blüdhaven spring and sick and sore—and when the guys are on the ground, out cold, he opens his mouth to tell Nightwing to get fucked. The last thing he needs is Dick Grayson playing savior, and not just because it softens those parts inside of him that are able to use his jealousy of Dick's stupid ability to be such a good person to fuel his ire of the other man. He—he can take care of himself, that's all.

Only, he's half naked. He doesn't know where his shirt is, if the Dom even bothered to put it on him. The assailants had gotten Jason's pants undone before Nightwing had dropped into the alley. Jason thinks he might have helped them, done it himself. No, that's not true. Jason knows he did. Jason knows exactly how good doing what he's told feels when he's that far into subspace. 

So, instead, he just nods sharply and makes his way to the alley exit. He doesn't have shoes anymore, and that's…that sucks. New shoes, even at Goodwill, are a week's worth of ramen. Whatever, it's fine. He's got work in a few hours, he needs to get the shoes and he needs to not drop. Vaguely, he considers whether he can get his hands on the type of drugs that will keep him standing during a drop. Probably, he just has to get away from Nightwing, and…and probably deal in some trade. That stuff's expensive.

It's a plan. He walks in the shadows, because as good as it felt to unleash his anger on people who deserved it, his energy stores are depleted. Without Nightwing, given the odds, he might have been in a little bit of trouble. He can _feel_ Nightwing shadowing him from the roofs. Jason misses roof tops. The way they're just far enough away from the ground to feel like an entirely different world. Of the many things being Robin gave him, that's maybe the one he misses most.

He grumbles, "Don't you have a city to protect?"

Nightwing slips down to the street, then. Quietly, he says, "You're a part of this city. Maybe the most important part for me at the moment."

Jason rolls his eyes and tries his hardest not to think about all the things Dick has seen, all the times Dick has now had it proven to him that Jason was never an appropriate heir to his throne. He's not stupid enough to believe Dick hasn't been watching him. Jason's just done his best to actively not think about it. Damian clings like a limpet and tells Jason about his new dog Titus, and Clark's dog Krypto, and the fighting stuff Bruce teaches him and getting to play with kids his age who don't even know he's a sub and Jason will live in cold war with Dick to have that in his life every couple of weeks. It's not the first time he's had to live knowing Dick was judging him and just too much of a polite asshole to say it to his face.

"Yeah, well," Jason says, "You know I'm almost home, then, so leave the fuck off."

"Jason—" The word sounds punched from Dick, in a way Jason knows it can't be, Dick's just…good at being who he's supposed to be, good at being golden and true, like Bruce and Clark had a secret love child and hid him in a damn circus until he was old enough to become a child vigilante.

"What?" Jason cuts him off. "You've done your domly duty and rescued the pretty pretty sub-in-distress. Would you like your cock sucked by way of thanks, because unless you're—"

Nightwing moves so quickly that, even trained as he is, Jason doesn't see it coming. There's hardly a second between the two of them walking along and Nightwing's back being up against the brick of the nearest building, Jason's hands framing him, held in that formation by Nightwing's hands on his wrists, not even squeezing. Jason could remove himself, step back from the heat and comfort and stability of Nightwing any second. Any second. Jason blinks. "Um. Oh. You _do_ want your cock sucked? Because—" 

Dick makes a sound that might be a sob. "No, Jason. I _want_ you to let me take you back to my apartment, which has heat, and a private bathroom, and a kitchen with actual food in it. I _want_ you to let me help you set up documents so you can get a job with sick leave, afford a decent pro-Dom when you need it, and pursue a GED and maybe a college degree. But since I know the chances of you letting me help in any of those ways are literally less than Bruce and Hal actually putting a ring on it, I just want you to let me walk with you until you get home."

Jason wishes he weren't so much bigger than Dick. He would totally borrow a pair of shoes right now, self-respect be damned. He pulls away and Dick lets him. Jason's exhausted. The sun is coming up. He wants coffee, but he's out of the instant he keeps. It's a luxury. He staggers back a little and shrugs, too tired to keep fighting, no matter how scared he is of giving in. "You do what you gotta do, I guess."

*

Tim confides in Cass, because she won't tell anyone what he's thinking, not unless she suspects doing so might avert disaster. He says, "I think Dick might be losing it."

Cass looks at him with an expression that is clearly the polite version of, "Really? Aren't you supposed to be a genius?"

He rubs his forehead and reaches for the cup of coffee he'd poured earlier. It's cold. He's been distracted. "Dick is the guy who fixes things like this."

Cass lets him stew in that thought for a moment, says, "Mm," which can convey multitudes with her, pulls him out of the seat, and tugs him from his room. 

He says, "Um. Are we going somewhere?"

She just keeps pulling, so he follows. He follows her right to the Maserati that's technically Bruce's, but nobody except Tim really drives. She slips into the passenger seat and just waits. Tim stands by the car, pressing his fingers into the cool casing, considering. But it's beyond stupid to pretend he's not going to do what Cass is telling him to. He gets in and presses the power button. "Dick's?"

Cass nods, curling herself up to watch the scenery. The two of them have made the drive a million times. It's a mess of industrial waste and unfulfilled promise and Cass never seems to see anything other than a path between homes. 

It's around four when Tim parks at the one reliable garage within walking distance of Dick's place and they make the couple of block journey back. Dick won't be home from work yet. Tim lets them in, and both of them silently set to straightening up a bit, because Dick's version of housekeeping can best be defined as "very slightly controlled chaos."

Tim puts on a pot of coffee around five-thirty and Dick strolls in at six. He'll know they're there. Tim installed a good chunk of Dick's security system, he knows alerts go out when any of the perimeters have been breached. Dick walks straight to where Cass is folding some laundry, tugs her over to where Tim is filling water glasses, and smashes them all together in a hug that is 99% desperation.

When the hug is starting to stretch into touch-starved desperation territory, Tim says, "We thought you might need some help."

"Jason needs help," Dick says, the words cracked and strained. Not for the first time since Jason reappeared, Tim thinks Dick might have some shit to sort through in terms of his feelings toward the second Robin. Dick tugs at his hair and confides, "He traded blowjobs for up-synth to stave off a drop last time."

"Holy—" Tim swallows. He tried a much safer and more medically sanctioned version of up-synth _once_ when Bruce was out of the picture and Dick needed Tim on his game. It allowed him to physically perform the duties of Robin, but once he stopped concentrating, he also spent the next three days just barely avoiding peeling his own face off with his fingers and only marginally being able to tell the difference between reality and the hissing demon snakes that seemed to follow him everywhere.

"I can't—he won't let me—" Dick's breathing picks up in a way Tim's familiar with, but not from Dick. From himself.

"Whoa, hey," Tim says. And he's got more than enough of the Dom dynamic in him to know just how bad it can royally fuck a Dom's chemistry to be disallowed to help a sub he somehow identifies as being significant. "Okay," Tim says, and pushes Dick back toward the couch with the help of Cass. They get him seated with his head between his knees and Tim talks about the issue he's having tracing a particular drug route in Gotham until Dick's breathing grows even and he straightens out.

"Okay," Tim repeats. "So, you need to help him and he needs help, but he's not going to accept it unless he's the one asking for it."

"Which will happen when Joker becomes the voice of sanity," Dick states.

"Or," Cass says, and both of them focus in, "when he realizes he's the one holding all the power."

"I _told_ him," Dick starts, but Tim shakes his head.

If there's one thing being around Cass has taught Tim, it's, "Words are easy. He doesn’t need to hear. He needs to see."

Dick rocks himself a bit. "Okay. Okay then. What's the plan?"

*

Tim waits on Jason's rooftop, scanning for him with high-powered binoculars. He comes down when Jason's making the last half-mile of the walk from his work. Tim's thankful, when he actually sees Jason at the same level, that he was schooled in the Bruce Wayne Academy of Lack of Facial Expressions. Maybe he and this Jason don't know each other; maybe this Jason is kind of a jerkface, but neither of those facts change the past. Jason was Tim's Robin, the boy he strove to become and would never quite replace.

Jason's lost easily ten or fifteen pounds since the last time Tim saw him. In the heat of the early Blüdhaven summer, he's sleeveless. His muscles are a spoken threat without much body mass to pad them. Jason notices him, Tim knows that, but he doesn't bother to acknowledge his presence, not when Tim says, "Jason," not until Tim begins to reach out.

Jason's got Tim's hand in his grip practically before it's even left Tim's side. The pressure is enough that it's only Tim's training and his built-up pain tolerance that keeps him from crying out. As it is, he bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to breathe. Jason says, distant and cold and _mean_ , "Replacement."

Tim wants to tell him how very much it isn't like that, how it could never be, not for Bruce or Dick or Alfred. He swallows the desire. Jason won't believe him, and that's not what he's here for.

Jason stiffens and asks, "Damian?"

Tim rushes to say, "Damian's fine. It was Take Your Kid to Work Day so Hal showed him how to fly planes, since evidently that's cooler than R&D spreadsheets. Whatever."

Jason says, "Wow," and it gets Tim back on track.

"Please," Tim says, because it's what Jason needs to hear. Even when subbing, Tim's not particularly malleable. He likes to see what he can get away with, likes being _made_ to bend, but just because he's not generally interested in giving over control doesn't mean he doesn’t know how to. "Dick needs you to let him—just come for a meal, just one, that's all I'm asking. You don't even have to stay for dessert, swear."

Jason's expression doesn’t shift, doesn't give anything away. "Why'd he send you? Too much of a Dom to beg for himself?"

"He's already asked. And we both thought a second try might end with you punching first and…never asking questions."

"But I'll accept _your_ invitation?"

"This isn't an invitation. This is me begging." Tim keeps his tone flat. Either Jason will believe or he won’t. Dramatics aren't going to get him anywhere, not in this.

Jason's breathing shallowly. "He even _thinks_ about Domming me—"

"Jesus, Jason, he's not a rapist. I know you hate all of us, but it's for the most part based on a certain view of reality, so can we keep with that theme, please?"

Jason blinks and lets go of Tim suddenly. Tim holds his ground. After a second, Tim shakes his head, aware this isn't working and unsure of what to do except go back to using his words. "You know what? You think you know so much, you think you know them, you—you haven't a clue. You don't know that Batman went off the damn rails after he lost you. You don't know that _everything_ was in jeopardy, and I was the Poor Man's Substitute who got shooed in because someone had to be. You don't know the way there's a ghost that haunts every waking moment of this family's existence, and that for three glorious, amazing seconds, I thought that could be fixed and then you turned and walked away like none of that even matters to you. So, just, whatever. I—"

Tim starts walking, because if he doesn't walk away he's going to say more, and he's already said too much. The point of this was to give Jason power, not live artillery, not a way to harm Bruce and Dick more if he decides that's what will make him feel better.

"Wait," Jason says. Then, again, "Wait."

Tim does, but he doesn't turn around. He can't. He's done hoping. 

"If I stay for dessert, will there be chocolate?"

Tim turns his head. "What kind of heathens do you take us for?"

Jason rocks ever so slightly back on his heels. "Okay. But I get to leave after the chocolate."

Tim thinks of the scrawny kid in Dick's circus colors, hankering after Batman, scrappy and aggressive and so intent on protecting the myth that seemed to ensure Gotham's survival. He thinks of the fierceness of the fight in that kid, and the way he'd gone after the villains who preyed on the weak so much more harshly than those who were just crazed. He thinks of the way Jason has always been a Bat in the sense of sinking his teeth into the things that matter, and not letting go.

"Deal," he says.

*

Jason has picked up another construction job, which is great, since it means he'll be able to just pay for up-synth the next time he's in need, rather than swallow some tweaker's cock, but it's also hot as Satan's balls all day. He works from three am to seven washing dishes at an all-night diner which has central air, but he's right next to the dishwasher and working with hot water the whole time, so it's not much better.

The central air in Dick's place is the best thing he's ever felt. He wants to make out with Dick's vents. He tries to get to the library once a week, both to give himself an hour in a temperature controlled climate and to grab a few books. But both the hour at the library and the time reading are hours he should be sleeping, so it doesn't always work out.

Honestly, he should be sleeping now, catching the five or six hours possible between jobs, but the idea of eating something that isn't ramen or spaghetti out of a can is more seductive than Jason is willing to acknowledge. Also, he hasn't had anything sweet since the pancakes at the Manor, and say what you will about Dick Grayson, he can be counted on to supply sugary goodness. 

As soon as Tim has let them in the place, Jason looks at Dick, ready to go on the offensive, but Dick looks wrecked, and is watching him the way a kid might watch an abusive parent. Jason doesn't want to acknowledge Tim could be telling the truth, because that means having to re-consider everything he believes, but there's no question Dick's shaky, relieved, cautious smile is real. Jason is a lot of things, but he's not the guy who kicks another guy when he's down.

Instead, Jason looks at Cass. He's not sure why she's here, but she's a neutral presence, at least in this instance. He says, "Hi."

She smiles. Then she vaults off the back of Dick's couch and disappears into Dick's bedroom. When she comes back, she has a weathered Agatha Christie novel and a book of Junot Diaz stories. She holds them out to him, almost shyly. Jason's unsure why she’s offering them, but he doesn't read any malicious intent behind it and he really likes classic mysteries. He forces himself to take them politely, not snatch them away. "Um, thanks?"

She smiles again. Tim says, "I mentioned you like reading."

"How the hell would you know—"

"Your room," Tim cuts him off. "You didn't go when you were in the Manor, and I suppose Bruce felt like it should be your choice, but he never—he didn’t touch anything. Your books are still everywhere."

Jason's grip on the books tightens. "Oh."

Dick says, "Alfred made me his cassoulet, but I froze it in case—well, anyway, I'm heating it up."

_In case you came._ Richard John Grayson, everyone, master of subtlety. Jason does not find Dick's lack of ability to play anything off as casual annoyingly sort of sweet, absolutely not. 

Still, it’s hard to ignore all the things that were unsaid. Alfred knew the cassoulet was Jason's favorite thing. Not even because it tasted amazing—it did—but because the night Batman had said, "How much for the night at my place?" and gently ushered Jason into the batmobile, it had been on the stove at the Manor. Alfred had taken one look at Jason and firmly guided him into a seat, placing a bowl of it in front of Jason.

Jason had said, "Um, I'm here to work—" and Bruce, Bruce by then—and wasn't _that_ something, Jason's cheap ass had just been bought by the richest guy in the city—had said, "No, you're not. Eat."

Jason had slowly plowed his way through two bowls and hadn't regretted it, not even when the cramps hit. So, yeah, Jason likes cassoulet best. He wonders if Dick knows why. He wonders if Dick thinks Jason is an impressively stupid wanna-be tire thief, or if he knows Jason sold the rights to his ass and whatever else Batman wanted for the promise of a grand.

"Sounds good," Jason says, because Dick is looking at him with wary hope and if it's not the worst feeling in the world, it's close.

The tension in Dick seems to ease a bit. "Want something to drink? I've got, uh, some beers, don’t remember what kind, but they had oranges on the label. And Dr. Pepper. Maybe OJ. I might be out of that, though."

Jason goes to the fridge and finds the OJ. There's not much, but it tastes impossibly good. It's the real stuff, not frozen, not from concentrate, and he forces himself to take tiny sips, savor its tart-sweet wash over his tongue. There are several more beats of awkward silence and then Dick glances over at Jason in what he probably thinks is a surreptitious manner and launches into being Dick, telling stories about his day at work, prodding Tim into talking about school and the stuff he's been doing for WE, even asking Cass a question or two. 

He lets Jason be. Jason would like to take this for granted, but the thing about bone-deep exhaustion is that it doesn't leave a lot of room for fronting about much of anything. He's grateful for the lack of pressure, for the wash of easy conversation, for this time to sit in the air conditioning and just be.

He actually misses the point where they all congregate around the tiny peninsula area of Dick's apartment. Dick slides a bowl of the cassoulet in front of Jason. It's got almost twice the amount of the other bowls. Jason scowls at Dick, but Dick's got his head down, pretending to be busy eating, and his shoulders are nearly to his chin.

Jason takes a bite and lets the salty richness of the dish settle. Quietly, he says, "Tell Al thanks."

Dick must hear what Jason doesn't say, because he grins like a demented moron and says, "I will. Yeah, of course. I will."

*

Jason eats two of Alfred's stout brownies, which Dick evidently keeps in his fridge at all times. Not that Jason can blame him on that front. Dick puts another two in a plastic baggie and slides them over to Jason without looking at him. Jason should probably say no, cut this off cleanly, but, well. The brownies are really fucking good. And lord knows he's always been shit at saying no to Dick.

Dick says, "You should borrow the books, too. Or keep them. You can keep them, if you want."

Jason frowns. "I'll return them."

Dick looks over at that. "Yeah?"

"They're yours," Jason says.

"Maybe next week," Tim says. He's looking at Jason, his expression carefully neutral. 

"We could bring Damian," Cass says. Jason stares at her. It's the second thing she's said unprompted all night. She shrugs. 

Tim nods. "It'd be easier than you having to come out to Gotham to see him."

It would be. Jason doesn't have his own transportation right now, and with public transport, it's a day's trip. Which means he goes on the one day he's not at the construction site, Sunday. But it would be nice to have a day to read, maybe sleep a little.

The thing is, Jason knows how this works. It was like this with Bruce, at first, too, in the months and months when Jason was pretty sure Bruce was just grooming him, no matter what he said. When Jason squirreled away food, and tried his hardest not to get used to the small kindnesses that were almost unconsciously visited on him, sure he would screw it up and be right back where he started.

But then he let himself believe that it would be okay if he only had it for a time, he could go back to what he had been and just hold on to those memories for when things were truly bad. He had been stupid.

He's paid the price for his stupidity, but he's not dumb enough to think things can't get worse. It seems like such a small thing. Dinner he doesn't have to pay for once a week. Filling, nutritious food. Getting to see Damian without having to give up his one day off to travel.

It will end the way it did the last time he accepted someone's offer of kindness: with him alone, in the dark, no air, and only himself to claw his way back to the light. With someone forcing him to his knees and taking everything he has, regardless of the fact that he hasn't offered.

He shakes his head. "No, that's—I'll drop them off when I'm done with them."

He leaves then, makes himself walk out into the night's heat and keep walking. He sits at a bus stop between Dick's place and his work for a couple of hours, reading some, but mostly just sitting. It hadn't made sense to walk home and then to work, he'd only have had about a half an hour of downtime. The bus stop works fine.

He goes to work with the books tucked in his back pockets and focuses on the rhythm of washing dishes. He's doing fine. He's doing totally fine.


	3. Ruin Your Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's a mess, and Hal is done pussyfooting around.

Tim doesn't sleep for two days straight after they leave Dick's. He can't. Every time he closes his eyes he sees that second where Jason clearly thought about accepting, and the way he'd shut down the next second, blocked them out. He sees the wire-tense lines of Dick when they'd left his apartment. He sees the way Bruce watches from his own damn roof every time Jason comes and spends a few hours in the gardens with Damian.

Tim can't turn his brain off, so he stops even trying after a bit. Cass finds him in the middle of stretching and tilts her head. After watching for a long moment, she asks, "You want to spar, or you want to help me go down?"

Tim considers. "Yes."

She laughs. "Sparring first."

She kicks his ass, of course. The only one in the family who has a chance against her, ever, is Bruce. When Tim honestly can't get on his feet again—he tries, twice—he says, "Uncle."

She pulls him to his feet. He stumbles up from the cave with her and they go to their respective rooms, showering. Tim rubs some arnica into his bruises and puts on sweats. He goes down to the kitchen and pulls together a tray of cheese, nuts, and fruits, fills up a bottle of water, and then heads over to her room. She answers the door when he knocks. She's in Green Lantern pjs Hal probably gave her. Tim sets the tray down on her dresser and pulls her into a hug. She goes easily enough, clinging to the back of his shirt.

He says, "Couple of hours, yeah? Just a little service? Nothing too strenuous?"

She nods. He loves this about Cass. If she doesn't want to go down, nothing but serious drugs is going to force the issue, but if she wants to, well. It's like taking candy from a baby, only not mean. He kisses her forehead. She's placed a couple of pillows at the end of her bed, so he goes and sits on one, leaning against the bed. He pats the pillow beside him and says, "Kneel up."

She kneels next to him and he murmurs, "Match your breathing to mine."

He sets up a pattern of three seconds inhaling, five exhaling. It's probably been two, maybe three minutes when the small softening of her frame lets Tim know she's slipping. He says, "Go get the tray and water bottle from the dresser and return."

She does, holding both until he takes them from her and sets them on the ground. He picks out a cheese cube and holds it up to her lips. She nips it away with her teeth, and he taps her nose with his knuckle, giving her a disapproving, if amused, look. She smiles, and takes the bite of apple that follows neatly.

They sit in silence, him feeding her, giving her sips from the bottle, until the tray is nearly gone. Tim eats the last few bites himself, vaguely aware it's the first thing he's eaten in a while. He moves, situating himself so he's lying down, his head in her lap. "Give me a head massage."

At first, even though—dual dynamic aside—Tim trends toward Dom, giving orders had been hard. Dick, who'd helped him learn, had grinned when Tim had admitted this and said, "Yeah, I know, it wars with the politeness instinct."

It had taken a lot of bad sessions, ones where the subs he was working with ended up frustrated with him, for Tim to find his stride in just telling, but he's learned how to trust he won't abuse the privilege, how to ride the currents of a given scene. Also, how to negotiate beforehand so he trusts the sub will safeword if needed. 

Cass's fingers dig into a pressure point and Tim swallows back a pretty un-Bat-like whimper. She keeps working, and Tim's in that space where the headache he's had for at least ten hours is starting to recede, but he's feeling the pulse of bruises against his skull when, to his surprise, Cass speaks up. He's literally never heard her speak in a scene. He's always assumed it's either a personal preference, or a leftover from how often her dad used her willingness to please as a weapon against her, a way to train her against her own nature.

"He's terrified. Jason."

Tim opens his eyes, looking up at her. She's got the languid posture she gets when in subspace, so she's still there. He says, "Do you know of what?"

Her fingers go lighter, soothing now that she's poked every pressure point he has. "Not for sure."

Tim debates whether to push now, or if he should wait until she's up. But she started the conversation, which makes him think she's trying to tell him it's easier like this. "You have a guess."

"I think maybe before he didn't know what loss meant. Now he does."

Her fingers still and Tim sits up. He nudges her until she's lying with her head in his lap. He plays with her hair, fingers skritching at her scalp in light, playful touches. Tim says, "He's afraid of hope."

"It's scary."

Understatement, Tim thinks. 

Cass twists her mouth up, an unusually expressive move, a sign of trust, Tim knows. She says, "It's also…neither of them knows how they feel about each other. Watching them—" She shakes her head. "Confusing. Like an itch under the skin I can't reach. I…I don't have the right words for it."

Her eyes are drooping. She's on the precipice of sleep, and Tim doesn't doubt expressing herself even that much through verbal means has been emotionally exhausting. He gathers her up and places her on the bed. She grabs his shirt, which is probably more instinct than anything else, because Tim wouldn't even consider leaving her alone when she's down, and he's certain she's rationally aware of that. 

He curls up around her, making her the little spoon, and says, "Sleep."

She yawns and says, "You can't make that an order," but she's smiling.

Tim pokes at her stomach with a finger and says, "I just did."

She obeys and Tim…Tim finds himself able to surrender as well, tucked up behind her.

*

Hal knows Bruce is keeping tabs on Jason. Never mind that Dick, who might be the world's most trustworthy being— _including_ Clark—is in the same damn city and clearly doing his best. Never mind that he's got a brand-spanking new five year old with the combat skills of Shiva and the emotional damage of, well, Batman. Bruce can't let it go.

The thing is, Hal also knows exactly to whom he hitched his wagon. He gets that this is Bruce's only way of having control over a situation it is killing him not to control. But it might actually be driving Bruce around a bend none of them even saw coming, so as much as Hal generally tries not to intervene in what he considers Parent Stuff, he's going full-on Intervention.

This involves, among other things, stealth-scheduling some sparring time for Bruce with Dinah to wear him out a little, and bringing him a couple of fingers of Scotch as he's coming out of the shower afterward. Bruce takes the glass but gives him the side-eye. "Do I have to drink all of this before you make your move, or do you think we could start getting it over with?"

There has been once or twice where Hal has outmaneuvered Bruce, mostly by accident, but he's used to the notion that Bruce will see him coming from eight miles away. Sometimes Hal thinks Bruce originally allowing Hal to get within touching distance was what broke down Hal's resistance to trusting anyone, really, let alone a Dom, with his heart. "Well, at least take a few sips."

Bruce rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips curl up, and he takes a small draw of the Scotch. He walks toward the bedroom, still naked from the shower, and Hal watches appreciatively. He follows after a moment and says, "You gotta stop being a creeper about your kid."

Bruce takes another sip and asks mildly, "Which one?"

Hal gives him an unimpressed look. "I can't decide if you're acknowledging that you're kind of creepy in regard to all your kids, or being intentionally obtuse."

"It can't be both?"

Hal points a finger. "Not the time to make me laugh, jackass."

Bruce returns the unimpressed look, but Bruce does it three hundred times better, because it's his fucking superpower. And yes, Hal recognizes the irony in that statement. Bruce says, "Don't we have rules about this sort of thing? I parent my kids and you fulfill your duties as Trophy Sub?"

He says it so casually that if it weren't so incredibly insulting, Hal might miss the intended depth of the wound. As it is, he makes himself breathe, because Bruce starts fights for all kinds of reasons, but the biggest one is to avoid talking about anything that really matters. Calmly, Hal says, "One, go suck your own cock, you gigantic palace of douchery, and two, fuck whatever rules you think we have. Sooner or later your kid's gonna pay someone who's not going to listen to his safeword because they just don't want to. Or he's going to hurt himself during a drop, or Dick is going lose his mind from stressing out over the situation. I can keep going, but I know you, and I _know_ you've calculated every eventuality."

Bruce is still for a moment, then tips the glass back and downs the rest of the drink. Hal blinks because that is not a Bruce thing. Bruce is measured and refined and…a guy who was brought up by an English butler. He is that guy.

"He didn't try to steal my tires."

Hal nods slowly. "Yeah, I'd kind of gathered from, you know, his complete disdain regarding that idea."

"He tried to sell himself to Batman."

"Huh." Hal turns that over in his head. "Well, that puts the phrase 'balls of steel' to shame."

"He was twelve," Bruce says, sounding like he's swallowing glass.

"Yeah," Hal says softly. "And I'm guessing he wasn't offering up his virginity."

"Oh, no. He very artfully described the skills he could show me while I worked to swallow my own vomit."

"And now I'm guessing you asked how much it was for the night. Because he wasn't getting in that car with you otherwise."

Bruce takes a long, slow breath through his nose. "I gave him the money, too. Upfront. I've never been sure if that was the right thing to do, but—I couldn't leave him there. Took me seven, maybe eight months to convince him I wasn't grooming him for myself or anyone else."

"But you did convince him. You got him to see. You gave him Robin."

"And then, because I wasn't paying enough attention, I wasn't there when he was being _beaten to death._ I wasn't there when he got dunked in the damn Lazarus pit by Talia, whose only intention toward him was to use him. And he came back and the first person he saw was Tim, who he could reasonably interpret as his replacement. Dick saw Jason that way at first and, yeah, things were pear-shaped between me and him at the time but nothing close to—" Bruce shakes his head. "I barely had him the first time, Hal. What makes you think there's a chance in hell I could get him back?"

"Because you're Bruce Wayne, and there's fuckall you can't do, but that's not even the crux of it. The crux is that he's your kid, and you'd do anything for any one of your kids, and you're being a coward, which is unlike you. The crux of it is that he needs you and whatever he says, he misses you, and he needs you to fight for him, and you're sitting back watching this like a Sunday afternoon football game."

Bruce works up a glare for him, but Hal knows Bruce's glares and this one is defensive and largely for show. Hal just holds his gaze. Bruce drops his head, running a hand over his face. When he looks up he asks, "Can you be there? When—just, can you—"

Hal pushes into his space, then, pressing his hands against Bruce's chest, his forehead into Bruce's. "You know me better than anyone in the universe, and somehow, not at all."

"Yes, that's a fairly accurate representation of my relationship to the human race at large and you in particular."

Hal laughs. "I'm here. I've got your back. I'll have it until the day I die."

"Hal," Bruce says, a whisper, a profession of faith. 

"Yeah," Hal says, and it's a pledge as well. Then, "Now, take me to bed or lose me forever."

Bruce makes an inelegant noise. "Flyboys."

*

Jason's so hot he doesn't even want to eat after a full day of construction work when he lets himself into his room and finds it crowded with Bruce and Hal. He looks at them for a second, just to make sure he isn't experiencing heat delirium. When he's pretty sure that's not what's happening, he declares, "Nope," and walks right back out.

He doesn't get far. Whether GL created a construct to get them down to street level, or they just rappelled, Jason neither knows nor cares, but it's annoying as shit that they've beaten him there. He's not going to be able to outrun Bruce. He doubts he could even at full fighting strength with weeks of good meals behind him. And even _if_ he could, Hal'd still be able to whip out a little green dune buggy, or what-the-fuck-ever, and cut him off.

He draws himself up to his full height, which is thankfully impressive, and sneers, "Gonna kidnap me?"

"If I have to," Bruce says without missing a beat, pulling Jason up a little short. Bruce continues with, "And then I'll have my attorneys do some legal magic that makes it so you were just gallivanting in Europe all this time, like the adoptee of some rich jerk, and I'll once again be your legal guardian."

"I'm almost nineteen, if you go by birth year."

"More legal magic," is what Bruce counters with.

"You're literally sitting here telling me to my face that you will legally keep me prisoner if I don't come willingly."

Quietly, but with all the threat of Batman, Bruce says, "I am literally standing here telling you to your face that you are my second oldest child, and you can either come home with me or you can let me help you to get on your feet, but _yes_ , I will absolutely do what I have to in order to keep you fed and safe and maybe a little happy because I am your _father_ and that is what fathers do."

Jason takes a step back. Bruce does too, at that, perhaps not wanting him to feel crowded. Jason says, "My parents were Catherine and—"

"My parents were Martha and Thomas Wayne," Bruce cuts him off. "But if you think I'd deny that Alfred was a parent to me, you're wrong."

Jason's head is pounding. He needs water and rest. He's got six hours before he has to be at the restaurant and he's wasting it standing here, arguing. He rocks on his feet for a second, and then nods. "Okay, _dad_. Just a question, then: Joker ever tell you he shot me up with push-venom?"

Hal makes a strangled noise. It gives Jason an opening, because whatever else, Bruce obviously cares about Hal, so now Jason can press his point even harder. "Hal here seems to know what that does to subs. It's like the worst kind of desperation you can fucking imagine, or…no, I don't know that you can, actually. As a sub under that kind of chemical force, you'd peel your own skin off and eat it if told that would make the Dom happy."

Jason tilts his head, as if considering. "I guess it was nice of him not to do that, huh? Instead he just made me ask for every hit. 'Please, sir, please give me another. I _deserve_ another.'"

"Jason—"

"He punctured a lung at one point. I coughed blood while begging for him to hit me again. And I kept thinking, 'I'm being good, I'm good, Bruce will still want me, I'm good.'" Jason smiles, even though it hurts his stomach. "The thing is, I know how he works, Bruce. I know you _know_ this. You weren't surprised when I told you about the venom because he's taunted you with these facts before, but it doesn't really matter that he tortured me, does it? Subs, you know, sometimes in the field they're gonna get what's coming to 'em, I guess. Can't be killing every villain who decides to go that route, or something."

"If I killed him," Bruce says, and his voice actually _wavers_ , "I wouldn't stop there, Jason. I would hunt down every pervert who ever touched a centimeter of your hair, your skin, the air you breathe, and I would pull them apart with my bare hands, and make _them_ beg _me_ to keep tearing off each limb."

Jason's gaze flickers to Hal, who looks unsurprised by this pronouncement, like he knows exactly how much Bruce holds himself back all the time. Jason looks down at the ground to think, but all he comes up with is, "That's…violent."

"You asked if I would kidnap you. Jason, if I could, I would lock you in a set of rooms in the Manor and have you brought food and books for the rest of your natural life. I know that's not reasonable. I am not fucking _reasonable_ when it comes to my children. I am not reasonable when it comes to you. You can have me or you can have a rampaging serial killer, but those are your choices."

There's a part of Jason which, burnt and twisted and shaded by the green of the Pit, wants to demand that sacrifice of Bruce. Hal is standing there, every muscle tightened, looking absolutely lost, though, and mostly, Jason can't do that to Damian, who's blameless in all of this. He swallows. "I guess having non-serial-killer-you means you're still pretty intent on the kidnapping me thing."

"You could go to Dick's," Bruce says, like that's some kind of a compromise. "Or I could sign a lease somewhere else here for you. But you're not staying in your current rat-heap for a second longer, no."

He should take the last offer, hold on to the small scrap of independence he's fought so hard for. But he wants to see Damian, and he wants Alfred, and worst, most shamefully, he wants to be near Bruce, who looks like it would take a bulldozer hopped up on coke and evil fairy juice before he'd let anything or anyone with ill intent near Jason. "I, uh. Maybe tomorrow."

Bruce smiles, small and tentative. Jason says, "I've gotta be at work in six hours."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "They paying you minimum wage?" Jason looks away. Bruce says, "You've gotta be sleeping in six hours."

Jason doesn't want to argue anymore.

*

Jason has barely made it in the house when Damian comes barreling down the main stairs, the dog that's now bigger than him in his wake, and something red and furry literally tumbling all the way down. Damian yells, "Goliath!" and runs to catch the…puffball with wings.

When he's put it on its feet, all three make their way enthusiastically toward Jason. He pats Titus on the head, and scoops Damian up. "Hey there, trouble."

Damian points to the puffball and says, "Father and I rescued him. I named him Goliath."

Jason bends down and puts out a hand. "Hi, Goliath."

Goliath sniffs for a moment and then gives him a lick before scurrying over to peer out from behind Titus. Jason sets Damian down and takes his hand. "Come on, tell me about this rescue mission."

Jason listens with half an ear while Alfred all-but pushes them toward the kitchen. He actually does put his hand on Jason's shoulder and guide him down into a chair. Bruce has followed them. Jason's not sure where Hal's gone, but he's not in the room, in any case.

Within moments—Bruce must have called ahead—Alfred has set a bowl of cold cucumber soup in front of Jason. Jason has no idea how the man knows Jason's nauseated from working in the heat all day, but it feels so good, cool and easy on his stomach. Jason could kiss him.

It's followed by a glass of iced ginger tea and a leafy salad topped with grilled shrimp. Everything tastes impossibly delicious. Jason forces himself to stop before he's uncomfortable. He learned that lesson too many times as a kid to forget it now.

Now that he's full, the exhaustion is punching him in the face, and he senses he made a mistake sitting down. Vaguely, he hears Alfred ask Damian to go grab something. Damian looks at Jason worriedly, clearly concerned Jason will take the chance to slip away. Jason says, "I'm gonna get some sleep, but I'm staying here for a bit, okay?"

Damian's eyes go wide and he nods in excitement before dashing off to do whatever Alfred has asked of him. The pets follow in his wake. The moment they're gone, Bruce is at Jason's side, pulling him out of the chair. "C'mon, you look like you could shut your eyes for a bit."

It takes a second, but Jason rights himself on his own two feet. He says, "Uh, same room as before?"

"No," Bruce says. "I'll show you."

If Jason weren't so damn tired, he'd know where he was being led, but as it is, it's not until they're at the door that Jason realizes they've come to his old room. Bruce pushes open the door but doesn't go in. Jason looks. His old stuff has been packed away into labeled boxes. The walls have a fresh coat of paint, and there's a king bed rather than the full Jason remembers. The layout hasn't changed, but all the furniture is just a bit more adult than adolescent. 

Bruce says, "I wanted you to be able to make it your own again."

He's standing stiffly. He didn't do this in the last week or two. There's no smell of paint in the air. But if Tim is to be believed, it was still in its original state until Jason showed back up. 

Jason nods, and tries to breathe through the panic even thinking about recreating this space causes in him. At the moment, it's basically a blank canvas, though: just somewhere cool and comfortable and safe for him to sleep.

As if reading his mind—or perhaps the slight sway of his body—Bruce says, "Sleep, Jay. Everything can wait ‘til you've slept."

Jason's not sure, but he thinks he remembers Bruce taking his shoes off, and tucking him under the covers, molding them around Jason's body just so he'll feel safely cradled.

*

"R2 came home tonight," is the first thing Tim says once the comms are up that evening. He can't use Jason's name, but Little Wing feels presumptuous, and Robin's not going to work since that would be acknowledging it's not always the same person. Even if most of the crime community knows, there are standards to be upheld, here.

There's a stretched silence before Dick says, "That wasn't a Star Wars joke, right?"

The sound of what might be Barbara banging her head into a console comes through the line. Bruce just says, "No, Nightwing, that was not a Star Wars joke."

"Is—is he staying?" 

"For the moment," Bruce says.

"Think he'll run if I come to the city for the weekend?" is Dick's way of asking if he can come home. They don't mention the Manor over the comms, either.

Bruce's jaw is working. To keep Bruce from having to decide which kid to protect, Tim says, "It's a free city."

"Yeah," Dick sounds subdued, which Tim hates. He can actually hear Bruce grinding his teeth.

Thankfully, Barbara chooses that moment to say, "Problem slightly south of the docks, off 9th."

Bruce throws a line and Tim follows, never before quite as glad for the sensation of the sultry summer air peeling past him as he flies from one roof to the next.

*

Jason wakes up slowly, which is odd, considering he's definitely not alone in the bed and normally that would freak him the ever-loving fuck out. He peers out of one eye to see Damian sprawled on his stomach, one fist bunched in the t-shirt Jason wore to bed. Goliath is curled up just over Damian's head, and Titus is lying on the other side. Cat-Alfred is perched on the headboard.

Jason's arrested by it, how much of a _kid_ Damian looks like. He didn't, not back when he was just the Al Ghul heir. It's reassuring, knowing that even if Jason didn't have a whole bunch of choice in bringing Damian here, it wasn't the wrong decision.

He works Damian's fist loose. Damian smacks his lips and blearily opens his eyes, but Jason shakes his head, "Sleep, kiddo, I just want some breakfast."

Damian keeps sleepy eyes trained on Jason for a moment more, before letting them slip down again. Jason tousles his hair, and then heads out toward the kitchen. Now that he's rested, Jason's ravenous. He pours himself a glass of water and downs it, pouring another to sip more slowly as he cracks a couple of eggs and whips them.

He roots around in the crisper and finds mushrooms and tomatoes. There's a block of Havarti on one of the shelves of the fridge. Jason hasn't attempted an omelet in years, but they'd been one of his favorite things to make after Alfred had taught him, so he's hoping it's mostly muscle memory. Well, muscle memory and Bruce having top-notch appliances and kitchen utensils.

He sets up the French press to steep while he's making the omelet. It goes even more smoothly than he'd hoped for, and he can't help the tiny, secret smile that comes over his face at how nice the finished product is.

He pours himself some coffee and tempers it with a jot of whole milk. He pulls an orange from the bowl on the island and then seats himself in one of the bar chairs. He's making his way slowly through his breakfast when Replacement stumbles in, hair sleep-messy, eyes barely open, heading in a bee-line for the coffee machine. The pot is full. Jason had noticed, just wanted to take advantage of the chance for French press, rather than drip.

Replacement pours a mug the size of his head and takes a sip immediately, not even seeming to notice the heat. Jason asks, "Is your tongue made of asbestos?" and enjoys watching the kid startle enough to spill coffee all over his hands.

He sighs and rinses his hands off in the sink, grabbing paper towels to clean up the counter. "No, it's bionic, like the rest of me. I had the upgrades put in early, so I could sneak around watching bats and birds fly through the night."

Jason hates to admit it, but it's a pretty respectable come back. Even if he has no idea what the last part is alluding to. He falls back on, "Explains a lot."

Tim says, "Mm. I wanna show you something."

Jason finishes off the last of his omelet and begins peeling the orange while new-and-improved Robin disappears into another room. He could get up and walk out, maybe even should. He was enjoying breakfast, though, and if he's staying here for a bit, he can't let the others drive him out of common spaces.

The kid rolls back in with a tablet and sets it down in front of Jason, tapping at it for a few minutes until a picture comes up. A picture of Bruce and Jason as Batman and Robin. He swipes to another and then another. They're in different places, from different patrols. They're not professional, but they're enthusiastic.

"The fuck?" Jason asks.

"I wasn't like you or Dick. Bruce didn't find me, I found Bruce."

Jason looks at the picture on the screen. "You took these."

"And a million like them. And ones with Dick as Robin. Dick was how I pieced it all together. I'd seen him as a flying Grayson."

"You would have been—"

"Seven. I was seven when I started taking the pictures, started watching, started…trying to be part of something I didn't believe I deserved to be part of."

Jason swallows the last of his coffee and forces some levity into the statement, "Musta made your day when I kicked it, huh?"

"It felt like losing everything." Replacement's voice goes soft and there's an unsteadiness to it that throws Jason. When he looks up there's a slight sheen in his eyes. "After he lost you, Batman was unpredictable, and not in a strategic way, in a crazy-person way. Without Robin, not even Dick or Alfred could get him to stop from drowning in his own guilt and distrust of himself. I was certain the loss of you was going to be the end of Batman, maybe the end of Gotham in any way that mattered."

"Good thing you came along, then." Jason doesn't bother to hide the bite in the sentiment.

"I offered myself out of desperation, and Bruce said no."

Jason frowns, looking over at him. He nods. "He said no. Alfred and Dick just barely managed to convince him to train me, I think they both just figured I was as good a project as any. I could've been a damn plant, if the two of them had thought it would keep him occupied. Don't you get it?"

Jason tilts his head and Tim laughs, short and punched out. "I wasn't ever the replacement, Jason. I was the place-holder."

He grabs his coffee cup and walks out then. It's not rushed, and if it's dramatic, it's only as much as any bat eventually learns to be. He leaves the tablet, the picture of Bruce and Jason crouched on a fire escape shining up from it. Jason considers the image for a long moment before concluding, "Well, shitbears."

*

Tim runs into Bruce, almost literally, as he's rounding the corner, trying to get as far away from the kitchen as possible without actually leaving the house. It's his house and he can't flee every time Jason and he get into a fight. Okay, he probably could, chances are Bruce would let him have a place of his own, but he's not _going_ to.

Bruce catches him right before they collide, which is good, because Tim's spilt enough coffee on himself for one morning and really doesn't feel the need to share that experience with Bruce. Tim wants to just say thank you, but the adrenaline he's got pumping is making it hard to do anything but try to slip from Bruce's grip and run.

Unshockingly, that doesn't work. Bruce keeps his hold and says, "Tim, look at me."

Tim can't say what he looks like at that moment. He knows he doesn't want Bruce to see it. He knows ignoring the order isn't going to end the way Tim wants it to. Oh, Bruce will let him leave if he insists. Then he'll go and figure out secrets Tim didn't even know he was hiding.

It's easier and safer to just look up. Bruce considers him for a couple of seconds and says, "Go to my office. Hands on the desk."

When they're in the field, Tim doesn't question orders, not unless he's pretty sure following them is going to get Batman killed. Hell, when Bruce is just being his dad, Tim is fairly good about doing what he's told. But when he needs downtime and damn well knows it? It's always then that he has to fight. "And if I don't?"

Bruce doesn't posture or threaten. He says, "I will make you," with the confidence of someone who can and will.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Then I guess you're gonna have to."

Bruce's expression doesn't change a bit. If Tim were calmer, he'd still be able to read something into it, but he's more adrenaline and fear and fury than anything at this point. This is also what allows Bruce to swipe the coffee from him and toss Tim over his shoulder in one movement. Tim bursts into motion the second he realizes what has happened. He knows he can't overpower Bruce. He also can't help trying.

Bruce sets him on the floor once they're in the office and the cup has been put down. He doesn't let go, though, pushing Tim to his knees, and then into a full kneel, head to the floor, arms behind him, Bruce holding Tim's wrists toward the small of his back. Tim bucks but Bruce has him.

Bruce says, "You're mine, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, and you're not going anywhere until you tell me that."

"Settle in," Tim tells him, still pulling at the hold even though it strains his arm muscles to fight it. Sometimes pain helps push him down faster, which Bruce knows. It's probably why he's got Tim like this in the first place.

"All right," Bruce says. "Since we're stuck here, I think I should tell you that I'm sorry we haven't been spending as much time together since Damian moved in. I know having Jason show up alive has to be…making you feel uncertain of your place here. People tell you it's hard, being a parent. I suppose if mine were still alive, they'd have shown me in certain ways. And I think we can all agree Alfred's had his hands full. The thing nobody tells you is how often you will fail and have to accept failure."

The hand holding Tim's head to the ground is also massaging his skull, and Tim can't help giving into the comfort of that touch. Bruce takes a breath and says, "Nobody tells you how there'll be a million times when you just won't be there for your kid, won't know how to help your kid, won't even know where to begin. Nobody tells you that you won't be able to stop trying." Bruce swallows. "Tim. You're mine. My child, my responsibility, my Robin, my successor to the Wayne Enterprise 'throne,' mine. And despite all that, or maybe because of all that, I don't know how to help right now."

Tim can't say if it's the quiet, rare admission of vulnerability, or if he's just ready to give, but he mutters, "Yours," and the fight drains out of him. He's barely rasped out the word when Bruce is pulling him up, carrying him over to the sofa, where he tucks Tim—who's sixteen and growing into an adult body—into his lap, like a three-year old. Tim burrows.

"There you go," Bruce says.

"Sorry," Tim murmurs. He's always vaguely apologetic once down, as if aware he could make it easier on everyone if he could just…not be himself. 

"You did well," Bruce tells him. 

"I'm yours," Tim says again, because he's feeling a little doubtful about that, and it's rocking some of his calm.

"Yeah, you are. You have been since you took your first picture of me, I just didn't know it yet."

"Jason's back."

"Yes," Bruce agrees. "But that doesn't make you less mine. It means you're both mine."

"Damian. Really yours."

"Biologically," Bruce corrects. "I have papers that say you're mine. And if I didn't, I'd still know."

"Yours," Tim says again, trying to make it strong, for both himself and Bruce. 

"Yup." Bruce ruffles his hair. "And the next time you forget it, you're writing it two hundred times."

Tim screws up his face and buries it in Bruce's chest. Bruce must know, because he laughs softly, and squeezes tight.


	4. Not A Kid Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick comes around. Important conversations happen.

Hal gets called out on a mission two days after Jason comes back to the Manor, while Jason is still clearly avoiding Bruce with everything he has, Dick hasn't come home, and Bruce is treading water keeping Tim level. Honestly, the only person who's doing completely fine is Damian, and that's largely because not fucking him up more is the one thing everyone in the house can agree on. Hal allows Alfred to make him coffee before he leaves, despite the fact that he's already running late, both because he's too damn smart to deny Alfred anything, and he needs to say, "Sorry, I—"

Alfred shakes his head. "Most certainly not, Master Harold. The good of the many, and all that."

Hal's not sure he believes that adage. He supposes he must, to some extent. But if it came down to Bruce's life—or any of the kids, since Hal is pretty certain Bruce wouldn't survive losing a second one— or the galaxy, Hal knows, deep in his heart, which he'd choose. He might not be proud of it. But he knows.

Hal rubs a hand over his face. Bruce is always frantic under his skin after he has to fight Tim down. Hal is one thing: they're equals, it's a game with specified rules between them, an understood outcome they can take a number of paths to realize. Tim is his child, and where Hal had never quite gotten why pushing at Tim had unsettled Bruce before Jason's reappearance, he gets it now. 

Hal knows Jason's type, has always been a little jealous. Without having to see it or have Bruce tell him, Hal knows Jason goes down more gently and easily than even Cass, who's one of the truest service subs Hal has ever met. Jason has _all_ of the signs: the outward aggression, the desperate need for approval that radiates off him every time Bruce and he get within fifty feet of each other, the distrust of being down and avoidance of it, the harsh drop when he's not brought out of properly. How Bruce _finds_ these kids is beyond him, but if Jason was Bruce's entre into helping a sub-child down, well, yeah, what’s required with Tim would be disturbing and like walking a fine line between aid and abuse.

It's _not_ : Tim's really a pretty typical dual-dynamic with D-type tendencies. But after Jason, and only Jason, yeah, it would feel that way. And that's without the ways in which Bruce already struggles to interact with his kids, the father in him constantly warring with the vigilante part, the terrified child of murdered parents, emotionally distant out of a default need, versus the grown man who is scared shitless by the depths of his emotions when it comes to those he loves.

In the end, Hal responds, "Sure. But it'd be nice if the many could have waited a few days."

Alfred makes an amused sound. "They never do."

"Truer words, Alf." Hal drinks the last of the coffee. "Truer words."

*

Jason makes the decision on his second day at the Manor that as interested as he is in avoiding Bruce, Tim, and Dick (whenever he decides to show up, Jason has no doubt that he will) he is more interested in spending the next week or so in the Wayne Manor library and seeing what has populated it since his years as Robin.

He takes the time to spend early morning with Damian and his varied pets. While the two of them do katas together, Damian whispers that he doesn't want Hal to leave—evidently Green Lantern's been called up—and Jason does his best to distract him by introducing Damian to the gargoyle Jason named Brunhilde as a kid. "Called her 'Hilde for short."

"For the shield maiden?" Damian asks.

Jason smiles and knocks shoulders with him. "Yeah."

Damian leaves for summer school, where he's evidently catching up on things like finger-painting and See Jane Run books, at 7:30. Jason grabs a banana and a travel mug of coffee and heads to the one spot in the house that he has never, for a second, been able to convince himself he didn’t miss. Just the smell of the room feels like home and he almost turns around, walks out, for fear of not being able to do so later. 

He's tired of being afraid of good things. That doesn't mean he can just turn off the fear. But he can certainly ignore the fuck out of it. He wants to make decisions based on what he wants, not what terrifies him. Still, he stands just inside the door for several minutes, fighting panic.

When he feels like he can draw a breath again, he starts with the nearest shelves. He used to know them almost by heart, certain of where each book he wanted would be. He still has the vague outline in his head, but it's sure to have changed, even if only to accommodate new material. The first thing, obviously, is just to relearn the basics, see what is new.

He loses himself in that task. At some point he finishes the banana, drinks the last of the coffee. He has no idea what time it is when someone opens the door and he startles out of the trance he's been in. Glancing out one of the windows tells him it's clearly at least mid-day. Alfred comes around one of the shelves to where Jason can see him and says, "You've always forgotten to eat when you were in here, Master Jason."

Jason looks at the tray in Alfred's hands. There's a hefty roast beef sandwich, rosemary and garlic roasted potatoes, minted carrots, a cup of strawberries, another mug of coffee and a glass of water. Jason takes it, now forcefully aware of how hungry he is. "You should've just commed me, Alf."

"Nonsense," Alfred says, clearing a spot in one of the reading nooks, one that has two chairs. He settles himself into one and waits. After a second Jason approaches, setting the tray down. He takes a sip of the water and then lays into the sandwich, using eating as an excuse not to talk.

Alfred doesn't speak for a while, either, and Jason wonders if he's maybe hiding. He's never known Alfred to hide, but it seems reasonable he would want to, now and then. Jason's going with this theory when Alfred says, "We moved the horticulture section into the east alcove to expand the section on geology. Otherwise, there's been no major shifts, just additions to the collection."

Jason chews and swallows, because he may not have been raised with any manners, but Alfred sure as hell taught him some. "I was wondering where it'd gone. Hadn't gotten to that alcove yet."

"If there's anything of particular interest to you that you do not find, you should, of course, mention it."

Jason ducks his head. "Pretty sure it'll take me a while to get through what's here."

"Perhaps," Alfred says, with a slight tilt of his head. "Nonetheless, this is your home, and you may wish to broaden the collection, your thirst for the written word has always exceeded even Master Timothy's."

Jason eats a little more before poking at that particular wound. "Word on the street is he's some kind of genius."

"In his own way, yes. All of you boys have shone in one manner or another."

Jason doesn't roll his eyes, but only because it's Alfred. "Yeah, okay, but he's…he's like Bruce-smart, right?"

"He is highly deductive, and his technical skills are surpassed possibly only by Miss Gordon's. He does not have the proficiency in combat of either you or Master Richard, the ease with people Master Richard enjoys, or the desire to engage with text and new experiences that are your forte."

Jason takes that as a yes, but he also sees Alfred's point and isn't particularly interested in biting the hand that feeds him. He takes a carrot and munches on it. "Those are really good."

"Fresh mint. The herb garden did exceptionally well this year."

Jason looks down at his knees. Before he can lose his nerve he asks, "Did he really miss me?"

Alfred's answer is quiet. "You cannot imagine, nor, hopefully, will you ever know, what it is like to lose a child. Even when you do _not_ believe it to be your own fault. There was not a day when your shadow was not with him, when he did not think about hearing your laughter one more time. I daresay he will continue to miss the boy he lost, as you are…not a boy. And he cannot get back the years that were lost, nor the time when you were kept from him. Missing is a paltry word, Master Jason, for Master Bruce's emotions when it comes to you."

Jason makes himself look up at where Alfred has his eyes trained on Jason. They are slightly wet, narrowed with emotion. Jason admits, "I don't know what to do."

Alfred smiles, ever so slightly. "Finish your lunch. Spend the day in the library. Join us for dinner this evening."

Even the thought makes Jason's chest tight, but he nods. "Yeah. I'll…I'll consider it."

"Very good," Alfred says, as if Jason has fully agreed. He supposes that's not a terrible assumption.

*

Tim's relieved when the head that peeks into his room followed by a quick rap on his door is Dick's. He's been calmer, certainly, since Bruce got him leveled out, and it's helped that Jason is avoiding him as much as he's avoiding Jason. Still, with Hal having left orbit, it's reassuring to have Dick here. Bruce and Dick might fight like feral cats with rabid dogs, but Dick also knows how to reach Bruce better than any of them, excepting Hal and Alfred.

Tim gets the feeling Alfred's been put to the task of bringing the untamed Jason-creature closer to the fire, so Bruce has been left to his own devices, which…could either be fine, or end with Gotham burning to the ground. These days, Bruce likes to keep himself busy when Hal's not there. It's great if there's an actual problem to solve. Not so much when Gotham is just being it's normal, petty-crime ridden self. Patrols are one thing, but there's a balance to keeping Commissioner Gordon in their corner that Bruce isn't spectacular at when he's not otherwise occupied.

"Hey," Tim says.

Dick takes it for the invitation it is and slips into the room, coming to sit on the bed. "Long week?"

"It's Wednesday," Tim points out. "Which, uh, don't you have a job?"

"Pulled a couple of double shifts and called in a few favors so I could take Thursday and Friday off to come out here. How's things?"

Tim shrugs. "We're all still breathing."

Dick rolls his eyes and reaches out to muss Tim's hair. Tim lets him, trying not to sink into the touch too much. Dick notices anyway, because Dick's pretty much a genius at reading anyone, let alone the people he's actually close to. He says, "Hey there."

Tim shrugs again. "Like you said, long week."

"You can't listen to Jay, kiddo. Even the first time around, without the Pit and the other shit he's carrying with him now, he was three-fourths bluster." Dick says this with a small smile, the kind that accompanies fond memories. "All the stuff he says, it's got nothing to do with you and everything to do with how terrified he is."

Tim smiles, but it feels more like baring his teeth. "How come it bothers you, then?"

Dick huffs, the smile converting into a scowl. "Because Jay never liked me all that much. Even when he liked Bruce." 

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Everyone likes you. I'm not convinced super-villains don't like you."

Dick looks unaccountably tired at this pronouncement. "I might have been…less than wholly welcoming when Bruce first brought Jay on board."

Tim frowns. "What?"

Dick sighs. "There was a lot I didn't know about Jason when I first met him. Bruce and I had been fighting, I'd kind of flounced off to New York. I came back and this bright-eyed kid had taken my place, been given my name, the name my _mom_ had given me, without Bruce so much as mentioning it, and it felt—it felt like Bruce had gone and found himself a sub sidekick who would listen the way I wouldn't. I was pissed and instead of having it out with Bruce and only Bruce, the way I should have, some of that bled over onto Jason, who, I didn't know it at the time, but was already fairly unsure of his place in the family."

Dick rubs a hand over his face. "Basically, I fucked this one up early, and while we had recovered somewhat before Jason was—before the Joker, I don't think it was a strong recovery and it's not all that surprising Jason doesn't trust me as far as he could throw me."

"Oh," Tim says, not even sure how to respond. It's disheartening, because he had kind of been operating under the theory that if anyone could reach Jason, Dick could. There seems to be something between them, even under all Jason's prickliness. It's in the way Tim sometimes sees each of them looking at the other one when they think they're not being watched. There's an unseen spark that Tim feels without being able to describe.

Dick says, "Hey," again. "It's gonna be all right. We've got him back. Whatever was broken, it can be fixed."

Tim looks over at him and, after a second, laughs. Dick says the stupidest optimistic shit, but the thing is, he so rarely fails to bring his expectations to bear. Tim says, "Okay, Dickiebird."

"Watch it, grackle."

"Grackles are awesome," Tim says, because they're aggressive and clever.

Dick grins. "Yeah. Yeah they are."

*

Jason debates about showing up to dinner for so long he's almost fifteen minutes late. When he notices Dick is there he almost turns right around. The Replacement is one thing, but the Golden Boy is something else entirely. Being around Dick is like riding a current that might crash into the rocks any minute. He's so fucking easy to handle until Jason remembers all the ways he'll never live up to him, until he thinks for a moment about the liquid grace that he's always, deep down, longed to touch. Jason's feelings about Dick in general are something Jason's still not ready to handle. Jason's at the damn Manor, he's given that much. It's enough.

Then again, Bruce brought Jason here. Sought him out and begged and fuck it, Jason's got every right to be here. And he's never been one to run from a fight. Even the ones he definitely should have run from.

Bruce says, "Evening, Jason."

Jason slips into the room with a nod. "Bruce." There's a place set for him next to Bruce, so Jason grabs one of the nearest serving dishes—the main dish is a Moroccan chicken with figs and citrus Alfred had to bribe him to eat the first time, but never once after that—and spoons some food onto his plate. Damian is across the table from him. Damian eats like a practiced gentleman, subtle flair and etiquette drilled into him by his mother and forced into him by his grandfather.

Damian finishes chewing and says, "Alfred promises to learn how to make hawawshi."

Jason doesn't have the same sense of home that Damian identifies Egypt with, but he will eat the food from there until he is sick and have no regrets. "He's excellent at shepherd's pie, I know that. I might experiment with him."

Damian, who had gone back to cutting his chicken, looks up sharply at that. "We’re allowed in the kitchen?"

There's a sudden, stiff silence Jason remembers all-too-well. It's the absence of sound that connotes a specific type of horror. Bruce is the first to recover because Bruce has repression down to an art Rembrandt would probably admire. He asks, "Why wouldn't you be allowed in the kitchen, Damian?"

Damian shrugs. Jason can tell the kid knows he's said something wrong, but not what it was. Damian doesn't allow himself any hesitation, though, as he answers, "That is Pennyworth's domain, and I've not been invited. Additionally, it is best that children without skill or purpose not be in the way of those with both."

Jason isn't sure whether the, "Riiiiight," that Dick drawls is even on purpose or if his mouth just vaults right past his brain. Either way, they all look at him, and Dick, because he's Richard-Butter-Wouldn't-Melt-Between-My-Asscheeks-Grayson, just rolls with it, saying, "Alfred loves it when we hang out with him, and you didn't get an invitation to the kitchen because there's an open door policy. As in, it's always open. Even when it's closed."

Damian looks to Bruce, who, to his credit, nods firmly. "You are allowed in every area of this house at any time, although I request you knock before entering a room belonging to any other member of the family. And you are _welcome_ in every area."

Alfred, who has probably been listening by comm in the kitchen, bustles in with an extra side dish nobody needs and they'll finish happily anyway, and says, "Most definitely in the kitchen, young Master Damian."

Jason loosens the grips he's had on his fork, hard enough that were it actual silver—thank fuck Alfred went with the casual set—it would probably be bent beyond repair. Damian is breathing through his nose, forcing himself to perform little motions—in this case, soothing his napkin—the way he does when he's excited about something. Jason knows he's gotten better about being willing to show it, especially in regard to his animals, but the conditioning into being a weapon rather than a child is unquestionably still there.

Jason can feel Bruce go even more taut next to him with the same awareness. But Damian cocks his head and asks quietly, "Do you think you could teach me to make qara asali?"

Alfred smiles slightly. "I'm unfamiliar with that particular dish, but I see no reason why we cannot experiment together."

Damian looks down at his plate. Jason can't quite read where he's at. The Replacement is the one who speaks up and says, "I've read about that. It's like pumpkin pie, right?"

"Better," Jason says. 

Damian looks up. "Pumpkin pie?"

Tim blinks. Alfred says, "My work here is clearly far from done," and heads back toward the kitchen, presumably, Jason imagines, to bake a pie.

*

Jason sits in the room while Bruce reads Damian a story that night before bed. Damian can read in two languages, could by the time he was four and even that wasn't enough for R'as, who used a mixture of emotional abuse and "strictness" to achieve his ends. When Jason had learned about the night-time routine, he'd mentioned this, and Bruce had said, "I could read by the time I was three. Didn't change the fact that having my mom and dad read to me every night gave me time with them and made it easier to sleep."

Jason has to wonder if maybe his death forged new emotional paths for Bruce in ways he hasn't considered until now. Bruce had always been good about encouraging Jason in his schoolwork, giving him adequate subspace time, making sure Jason got enough sleep and ate as much as a growing boy should, but fun, small moments in parenting hadn't been his forte. Jason assumed growing up that it was just because he was the sub-orphan—once he'd gotten past thinking he was the kept boy—and that Bruce had probably done those things for Dick. Only Jason saw how Dick was silently pleased at Bruce actually _telling _Damian he was welcome anywhere in the house, saw, when he was a kid, Dick accept Bruce's small signs and tokens of love rather than any simple declarations of it.__

__It's possible that Bruce has just gotten more mature, or maybe Damian matters more as his genetic child. When Jason thinks about what Tim said that first morning at the Manor, thought about how Bruce had lashed out blindly after Jason's death, well, there's a part of him that believes it possible Bruce is just more _aware_ of what he has. Bruce is trying for what he didn't even really know he could have when raising Dick and Jason._ _

__Bruce is probably onto something with the reading, in any case, because Damian clearly loves having Bruce sit with him and read to him aloud. Bruce doesn't do voices, per se, but he's a dynamic reader, and uses pitch and pacing to move the narrative along. They're working their way through Toad and Frog, and Damian falls asleep in the middle of a chapter, tucked between Titus and Goliath, with Alfred above his head._ _

__Bruce leans over to kiss his forehead, straightening the covers around his shoulders. Jason follows Bruce out of the room silently. Jason is thinking he should split off, maybe return to the library for a bit before turning in, when Bruce asks, "Wanna come out for a patrol?"_ _

__Jason nearly trips over his own feet. He catches himself just in time to not ask a particularly brainless, "what?" Instead he manages, "Replacement'd probably be pretty pissed about that."_ _

__"His name is Tim," Bruce says, without any particular tone, "and he was the one who suggested it."_ _

__Jason _does_ ask, "What?" at that reveal, but he figures that's acceptable._ _

__Bruce's voice is soft when he says, "You think that because you only ever wanted to measure up to Dick, to be both as good as and different from the first Robin, that's what Tim desires. It's like you discount your time as Robin entirely, never thinking perhaps Tim has two Robins he holds himself accountable to."_ _

__"Yes, of course, because disobedient subs who get themselves killed—"_ _

__Bruce turns into him so quickly that Jason can't stop in time and bounces off of him. Jason goes into a fighting stance without even thinking, but Bruce steps backward, holding his hands up in a gesture of mollification. His voice, though, has every bit of the fight Jason's already bracing for. "That is _not_ what happened, Jason."_ _

__Jason opens his mouth, but Bruce shakes his head so fiercely Jason finds himself falling silent. Bruce says, "You disobeyed me, yes, because children disobey their parents, that is a thing that happens. And they get sent to their room or grounded or maybe have dessert taken away. They aren't _tortured and killed._ That's not—that was not a punishment. That was the act of a psychopath. And if I'd been a better parent, I would have realized there was no way you could obey that order, that even the chance of saving your birth mother would have been an impulse you could never have resisted, then maybe—"_ _

__"No." Jason shakes his head. "No. You were trying to keep me safe."_ _

__" _I_ failed. Both of us made mistakes, yes, but I failed. I failed, and you died, and that is the whole truth."_ _

__"What happened to it being the act of a psychopath?"_ _

__"It was my job, as Batman, as your father, to keep you from the path of the psychopath."_ _

__"And it was _my_ job, as Robin, to fight him beside you."_ _

__"But you weren't beside me. I wasn't beside you. I—I wasn't there."_ _

__Jason doesn't know how to respond to that. Because Bruce wasn't, and because Jason had so desperately wanted him to come. But he'd known, even then, that Bruce, for all his toys and intelligence, was still just human. He rocks back onto his heels. "You're here now."_ _

__Bruce swallows and nods. "And if you'd like to patrol tonight, I'll be beside you. No matter what."_ _

__Jason hasn't even been at the Manor a week, yet. He's not even in the neighborhood of his fighting weight again, and he's still re-polishing his skills from all the time he lost after dropping Damian off. But he doesn't doubt he can hold his own when needed. "Sounds like it could be kinda fun."_ _

__Bruce watches him for a moment before turning and taking up walking again, with a little snort. Jason hides his own grin and stumbles to catch up._ _

____

*

Jason gets up the next morning, despite returning from patrol in the early morning hours, and practices katas with Damian before he heads to summer school. He chats with Alfred over a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs on an English muffin before heading to the library again. Another few days for exploration and then he'll start really thinking about what his plans are. He can't just loaf around the Manor indefinitely, doesn't even want to, but it has been nice to have a bit of time to rest and regain some strength.

He's perusing the latest additions to the chemistry collection when Dick comes in and says, "Thought I might find you here."

Jason is dealing with his shit and all, but there's a limit, so he decides to pretend like he has somehow not heard Dick on the off chance he might go away. Unshockingly, because if there's one trait that runs true in every Bat—adopted or otherwise—it's stubbornness, Dick just says, "Okay, you stay quiet, I'll talk."

Jason has a quick, glorious daydream about punching Dick in the face and walking over his prone body, but he'd never start something in the library. He's a bargain-bin dumpster-dive-retrieved sub; he's not a barbarian. And punching Dick would probably only start something Jason has no idea if he'd be able to finish. He swallows down the sigh that would give too much away and flips a page.

Dick says, "When my parents died, the only thing in the world that kept me going was Bruce. His acceptance, his trust, his willingness to allow me into his life and make me fully part of it."

Jason manages not to mention that Dick had the privilege of having parents who weren't drug addicts or ex-cons who viewed him as a not-terribly-valuable-but-still-marketable commodity because Jason actually gets that Whose Life Was Most Miserable is not an Olympic sport. It just presents like that most of the time.

"I was a good Robin because I kept Batman human, and I was a good son because I needed Bruce in a way he needed me to, but as I grew out of those roles, or at least, felt like I was doing so, it was impossible not to see all the ways in which I felt I had failed Bruce. Bruce and Batman."

Dick walks further into the room, coming to sit on the coffee table where Jason has been piling books. Now, if Jason looks up from the chemistry book he's "reading" he'll have to look at Dick. It's hard enough to keep the maelstrom of feelings that is his reaction to Dick under wraps when he's _not_ looking straight at the guy. Jason doesn't look up.

"And then there was you. Interested in school, easy about doing chores, and a sub. The one thing I'd always thought if I could be more like, maybe it would be easier for Bruce and me. Maybe I wouldn't argue with him so much and I'd be—be better. More what he wanted."

Jason does look up at that, too baffled not to. "You're fucking with me, right?"

Dick shakes his head. "No."

"In a lifetime of hearing some next-level idiocy from the people who raised me, fucked me for money, and put me in a devil-forsaken Lazarus Pit, that is the dumbest ass thing I have ever heard. Being a sub is the equivalent of losing the billion dollar sweepstakes lottery every day."

Dick looks down at his lap. "It has been for you, clearly, I'm not arguing that. But that's not how it's supposed to be. You've got to know that."

"I’ve got to, huh?" Jason just waits, makes himself go silent. Dick came to him, opened this Pandora's Box. Dick can be the one to close it.

Dick asks quietly, in a tone Jason can't quite discern, but that reeks of hope, "Hasn't it ever felt good? Even just once? That ability to let go, to allow someone else to take care of everything?"

Jason sneers, he can't help himself. "Doesn't it _always_ feel good? That ability to just take what you want? Just pull a person out of themselves and leave them nothing but a slave to your own desires?"

Dick pales and swallows convulsively, like he's fighting the urge to vomit. "I—I wouldn't know, but I can't imagine it does. Being a Dom, scenes are often terrifying. What if I do the wrong thing? What if I read the sub wrong and push too hard and I've put them too far down for them to tell me? What if I don't get them far down enough and the session doesn't do anything for them? Sure, a sub is responsible for his or her own safety to the extent he or she can be, but once a session starts…how do you always know where the line is?" 

Dick gets up to pace. "The Dom is in charge at that point, is the last line of defense. That's—that’s on _me._ And Bruce tells me that when it's right, when it's really right between myself and the sub, romantically or otherwise, I won't constantly have that fear, I'll find the rhythms between us and I'll understand why I want the things I want, and have the abilities I have. But all I have to go on is his word. So, I guess, maybe for some people it does. I don't think that’s the Dom in them, though. I think that's the asshole."

Jason blinks. "Are—are you saying you've never enjoyed a scene?"

Dick opens his mouth and then closes it. Slowly, he says, "I'm saying I've always been scared during them. And I don't know if I won't be someday, with someone, or if I'm just…wrong, as a Dom. Not good at it, I guess." He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Jason. "That's fair, though, right? Since you don't feel safe in them, either."

Jason doesn't let himself think, doesn't let the rational argument being made here filter through. If he does that, he has to be honest, has to admit there have been sessions so pure and clean and infinitely safe he would do anything to have that feeling again, even if just for a few minutes. "Yeah, you being worried about making a mistake is completely the same as me being forced to beg a guy twice my size and three times my age to fist me. Hundred percent, Grayson."

Dick takes a breath through his nose, then shakes his head and bolts for the nearest trash bin. Thankfully, there's one a few feet away, next to the desk where they tend to lay the larger of the reference books. Jason swallows down a sympathetic gag response as Dick throws up half his digestive system. He considers leaving, just letting Dick be, but when he stands to do it he finds himself going over and instead rubbing Dick's lower back. "I shouldn't have said that."

Dick shakes his head, wiping at the reflexive tears in his eyes. "It was honest. And you're right."

"I'm—it _was_ honest. But it wasn't the whole truth."

"Jay—"

"A month after Bruce took me in, I needed a session so badly I could barely function. I was having trouble sleeping, my concentration was shot, all the regular symptoms. Bruce offered to take me to a pro-Dom, someone who would do it however I told them to, but I had no idea what to even ask for, and the idea of paying someone for a session, I…I didn't like it."

Jason falls silent. He's never told anyone this before, nobody, and it feels like giving up the one thing that has been precious to him. Dick sits back, sniffles a little, and says, "You don't have to—"

And let it not be said that Dick Grayson acting like Jason _can't_ do something was never enough not to get Jason right back on that damn metaphorical horse. "I told Bruce it was him or nothing. I thought it was a challenge. I was still sure he'd actually bought me for…I mean, he _bought me _. So I thought, 'true colors time.'"__

__Dick swallows frantically again. "Bought?"_ _

__That answers that question. Jason scrubs at his face. "Not important to the story I'm telling." Jason waits a second for Dick to argue, but Dick doesn't make a sound. Jason continues, "He brought me in here and I almost begged him not to, because this room had been… I liked it. I wanted it to remain a place I could go. I didn't, though. I—" Jason shrugs. "I'd learned by then Doms would get what they wanted one way or another. Letting them know things was just a good way to get yourself more screwed over."_ _

__"He went over and picked out a book. I'd never heard of it before, because, you know, gutter rat and all. He put one of the cushions down on the floor next to his reading chair and said, 'kneel,' and I didn't _understand._ I was still fully dressed, the cushion was soft under my knees, and when he sat, he ruffled his fingers in my hair and said, 'good, you're doing so well, Jason,' like I had done _anything._ "_ _

__Jason forces down the impossibly stupid urge to cry. "He handed me the book, it was Anne of Green Gables, and said, 'Read to me.' I was already half-way down just from knowing that was what he wanted. I'd always fought so hard before, and I kept thinking I should, but it…I didn't want to. I wanted him to keep telling me I was good, I was…I wasn't a bad sub. So I opened the book and I started reading about this stupidly lucky orphan girl. Bruce would occasionally have me look up and he’d tip water into my mouth, or pop in a small piece of frozen orange juice and tell me how smooth my reading voice was, how much he was enjoying me reading to him."_ _

__Jason can remember, with sharp clarity, the perfection of everything in those hours of subspace. The sweet, cold tang of the orange juice, the soothing ease of the water, the reassuring rhythm of the story, and most of all, most importantly, the wash of Bruce's words, everything Jason had ever wanted to hear and never thought he would. He'd been half-way through the book when Bruce had kindly ordered him to stop. Jason's voice was three-fourths gone by that time, but he would have learned sign language to keep going, to give Bruce what he wanted. Instead, Bruce had bade him come for a walk outdoors._ _

__"Took me out to the gardens and settled me in the grass by the pond. I think I told him how good the air tasted there, so different from what I thought was just air, but was really trash and refuse and too many humans too close together. I was struggling to stay awake by then, lulled by how unfuckingbelievably good everything felt, and he stroked my hair and told me to let go, told me he would take care of me, that I was important and deserved to be taken care of."_ _

__Jason wants to leave and run, run so far he'll never have to even hear Dick's name again. He doesn't trust his legs to support him, though. "I never even dropped after that. I kept waiting. I was used to it. Ready. But—but Bruce was there when I woke up, there to make sure I surfaced properly, there when I needed him to be, and I just…didn't. Drop."_ _

__"Good." Dick's voice is low, raw. Jason startles a little. Dick seeks out his gaze and holds it. "I hope you got more of that when you were a kid, so much more. I hope you find a way to get it for the rest of your life."_ _

__Jason has forgotten how much he used to wish Dick were just a little bit worse of a person. He looks away. "Sorry you've never…it's never been like that for you."_ _

__Jason can hear the ironic smile in Dick's voice when he says, "I like to think I've got time."_ _

__Jason doesn't let Dick see, but it makes him smile a little bit, too._ _


	5. You're On To Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian has a bad day at school, and Jason's world view gets somewhat realigned.

Hal stumbles back into the Manor on a Wednesday night. The assignment lasted a few Ungaran days longer than intended, mostly because sometimes there are social etiquettes to being a Lantern that can't be ignored. In any case, it's been close to three weeks, he's running on fumes and wants nothing more than to eat everything ever in the whole world, have Bruce fuck him into the mattress, and sleep for forty-eight hours or so.

The first thing that happens, naturally, is he gets run over by Goliath, who has evidently gained about twenty pounds and the body mass to go with it in the less-than-a-fucking-month he's been gone. It's embarrassingly totally worth it when Damian pulls the fur-monster off of Hal and goes in for a hug, his, "Sorry" getting lost against Hal's stomach. 

Hal folds Damian up and says, "No worries, good to be missed."

He looks up to see Bruce in the foyer, watching them, the look on his face soft. Hal quirks his lips and mouths, "Hi."

Bruce moves across the entry hall then. Damian wiggles free of the hug and reports, "I finished my homework, I promise, Father."

Something flickers over Bruce's expression that's not quite pain, but it's close. "Excellent job, Damian. Would you mind finding Alfred and letting him know Hal has returned?"

The kid bounds off, his furballs close on his heels. Hal turns into Bruce enough to take a playful nip at his jaw. "Smooth."

Bruce snorts and grabs a handful of Hal's hair, pulling his head far enough back to kiss him. It's more a plundering of his mouth than a hello kiss. When he allows Hal up for air, Hal says, "So, Damian's still kinda afraid of you, how's the rest of your ragtag band of little orphan Annies?"

"With a silver tongue like that, it's really hard to believe you weren't scooped up well before I got my chance," Bruce says, his tone light, right before he bites down on Hal's ear, hard enough to leave marks but nowhere close to breaking skin. Hal hisses, his endorphins coming online like he's on mile two of the best run of his life. Bruce chuckles.

Hal cocks an eyebrow. "I'm not the one playing caveman in my front hall."

Bruce lets him go, which Hal knows damn well is punishment, since the last thing he wants is to not have Bruce's hands on him at the moment. He plays it cool and says, "Okay, but real talk, how're Tim and Jason?"

"Still mostly avoiding each other, but Tim's with the Titans for the moment and Jason's been putting his mind toward a GED which is keeping them both occupied."

Hal just waits. Bruce glares a bit, but says, "Just, can we maybe have dinner and a shower before we discuss this?"

"Assuming 'shower' is a euphemism for about eight unnamable sexual acts, I accept your proposal."

"Where did I even find you?" Bruce asks.

"League meeting. You know Ollie, you can't trust him to check the pedigree of his toys before he brings them to share."

"Please don't ever use that combination of words with reference to Oliver Queen again."

Hal just smiles beatifically and makes no promises.

*

True to his word, once they've eaten while listening to Damian give them a rundown on the imperialist themes of Wizard of Oz—which Hal is three hundred percent certain isn't what his language arts teacher was expecting when she assigned a two hundred word book report on it—tucked Damian into bed, made sure Batgirl, Spoiler, Oracle, and her Birds have their eyes on Gotham for the night, showered, and sexually exhausted themselves, Bruce actually answers Hal's question. At least, part of it. "Jason needs some down-time."

"Won't let you do it?"

"Won't even admit he needs it," Bruce corrects. 

Hal says, "I can chat with him, but there's gotta be someone he's willing to go to for it. If not you, I dunno, Dick? Alfred? Shit, I'm sure Dinah or Ollie would be good for it."

Bruce closes his eyes for a second. "Not Dick. Dick says they've got a détente going, but that's not enough, especially not if Dick's terrified of fucking it up, which he is. Because, as it turns out, it's a billion times harder to help a kid find their own Dom voice than to get a kid safely into subspace."

Hal watches Bruce for a long moment, the way he's so carefully loose as he says it. Hal knows damn well that's the body language he gets when he's expecting to be judged. Quietly, Hal says, "Yeah, I can see that."

Bruce's gaze flickers to him, as if assessing whether Hal is patronizing him. Hal just repeats, "Alfred?"

Bruce shakes his head. "We decided early on with Jason there would always be one of us who never Dom-ed a kid, so that if anything ever went wrong in a scene, the other one would still be a place of safety when needed."

Hal blinks. It's not that he hasn't suspected something like this. It's pretty normal, actually, in households where both parents are dual dynamics, or one's a Dom and the other a dual. Dom-Dom households are rare enough that Ollie and Dinah are genuinely viewed as somewhat pathological, but Hal imagines the same holds true in those. What's surprising is, "And Alfred let you be the one to Dom them?"

Bruce glares and it's impressive and all, but Hal's undeterred. It takes a staring contest Hal wins only out of sheer, cussed stubbornness, but Bruce finally grumbles, "Sometimes I win arguments with Alfred."

The doubt on Hal's face isn't even for show. He just can't control it. Bruce frowns. "Once. Once I won an argument with Alfred, but it was the one that mattered."

Hal doesn't mean to laugh, he doesn't, but just—well. He kisses Bruce even as he's still laughing. "Relax, you're still the Dommiest Dom in Domville."

He can feel Bruce roll his eyes, but he also kisses back, so Hal considers this round won. He rests his head on Bruce's chest and says, "Dinah's good. And she's done it as part of counseling from time to time, I know. He was going to pros before. I can come at it like that."

Bruce's hands curl into Hal, and while Hal can't imagine what it feels like to give something this serious in your kid's life over to someone else, he knows it can't be fun. Hal listens to Bruce steady his breathing. Finally, Bruce says, "It's a good plan."

Hal kisses Bruce's chest. "It's just until he works things out with you."

Bruce's laugh is choked, painful. Hal says, "Yeah, that's okay, I've still got the hope portion of this exercise covered for both of us, big guy. You just get some sleep."

*

Because the school Damian and Tim attend is K-12, if anything happens, Tim is often notified before Bruce, because he's on-site. For instance, the second week Damian was with them the fact that he hadn't been exposed to a bunch of children prior to school caught up with him and he landed in the nurse's office with a fever of 102 degrees and a flu that pounded him into the pavement for another four days. Tim had been told and had come to sit with him until Alfred had been able to pick him up.

Or there was the time some kid made a comment about Damian's mom and received about twenty-five percent pure Al Ghul-Wayne wrath. Tim knew he was supposed to chastise Damian for that, but first of all, he's Damian's brother, not his parent, and secondly, the other kid wasn't maimed or dead. As such, he'd stealthily fist-bumped Damian and whispered, "Solid work."

Tim's expecting something along these lines when he gets pulled out of his AP History class, so while he's concerned, he's not expecting a disaster or anything. What he walks into is a Damian who's clearly in subspace. Tim would know that look even if he hadn't seen it on Damian now and then, when Bruce has accidentally triggered a descent.

In a healthy sub child, bringing on subspace isn't terribly easy if the kid's not feeling cooperative. But in a kid like Damian, or Cassandra, a kid who's been trained that the alternative to letting their own minds be altered is even worse, well. Those kids are pretty easy to get down. There's a reason that type of child abuse carries higher penalties than child sex abuse. 

Rationally, Tim gets that this was probably a mistake, a joke by another kid that got taken a little too far. Emotionally, he's pretty glad he doesn't know who did this, because he's not sure he'd be able to stop himself from taking the little psychopathic shit apart.

Right now, though, the other kid isn’t important. Damian is. Tim looks at the Assistant Principal who is hovering slightly over Damian, looking protective but, at the same time, uncertain. Tim says, "It's okay, I'll bring him back up."

She nods, the relief on her face plain. She says, "We're not sure what happened, one of his teachers said they found him on the playground like this. You can—if you want the conference room, it's empty."

Yes, Tim definitely wants some space. "Thank you."

He walks over to Damian, who's standing at parade rest. Damian's eyes are slightly hooded, but Tim can tell he's highly attuned to his surroundings. Waiting for orders, waiting to be told how to please. Tim sinks down into a crouch and starts easily. "Hey Dami, eyes forward, on me."

Damian focuses immediately. "Yes, sir."

Tim doesn't like the use of titles when he's doing this with his siblings or even close friends, but he imagines they were trained into Damian in ways it's going to be hard to undo. He lets it go and says, "There you go, good stuff. You and me are going to go into the conference room and talk."

"Yes, sir."

Damian follows, as Tim knows he will. Tim clicks the door shut, but doesn't lock it. As much as he doesn't want anyone walking in, he doesn't want Damian feeling trapped, either. When he turns to Damian, the kid is once again standing at attention. Tim says, "We're gonna sit down over here," and heads toward the back wall, further away from the door.

He settles down with his back against it and says, "Sit next to me."

Damian obeys with a quiet, "Yes, sir."

Bringing a sub back up isn't a commonly practiced skill. For the most part, sessions will end when the sub starts to resurface because he or she is ready to, and all a Dom/me need do is be there, make sure the transition goes smoothly. Thankfully, Tim has some experience at this, because for a long time, Cass couldn't bring herself back up without aid, so Bruce, Dick, and he had worked out systems.

Tim's preferred way—which basically never works with Cass, but is easy as pie with some of the Titans—is to see if they can bring themselves out of it by being given a topic to speak on which brings out their expertise and gives them impetus to pull back into a place where baseline brain chemicals are at play. He asks, "How did Great Danes come to be the way they are?"

Damian reads books about dog breeding _all the time._ For a second the kid looks a little jittery and Tim thinks he might have to be more specific, but then Damian takes a breath and starts talking. Tim keeps an eye on the clock in the corner of the room. After thirty seconds, Damian still isn't lecturing the way Tim wants. At sixty seconds, Tim is considering another approach. At around ninety, though, something of a prideful edge—joy in the knowledge—enters Damian's voice and Tim fights back a smile. 

It takes a few questions and another forty minutes of learning about the Great Dane becoming the national dog of Germany and having friendliness bred into it, but by the time they're done, Damian's back to being animated, if a little too proper for a kid his age. 

Damian sinks into himself when silence falls and says, "I'm sorry to have interrupted your day."

"I'm not sorry. That was way more interesting than the sociopolitics of pre-revolution France, promise."

Damian doesn't even try for a smile. In a small voice, he asks, "Are you going to tell Father?"

Tim wishes with everything in his heart he could say no. "The school probably already has, kiddo. I'd be surprised if Alfred's not here to pick you up when we go back out there."

Damian nods, the tiniest little bob of his head, and then straightens his posture, stiffening everywhere. Tim doesn't know if it's the right thing to say, but he ventures, "You know he's not going to be mad, right? None of this is your fault and all he wants is for you to trust he's going to take care of you."

"Nonsense," Damian says, but it's not imperious, really, just tired and the denial of someone who's been taught not to hope.

Tim's pretty sure he's never felt the limitation of words as keenly as he does in this moment. The worst part is, he gets it. It took over a year from the time Bruce had accepted Tim as Robin and begun the adoption proceedings, for Tim to believe Bruce really meant to keep him, valued his opinions, wasn't going to start leaving Tim behind at the drop of a hat. And Tim's parents hadn't been abusive Pit-crazed assassins who only viewed Tim as a possible tool in their killing arsenal, they'd just been neglectful. And Bruce, even at his most cuddly, which he certainly seems to be trying to trot out for Damian's sake, is still six-two, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, and sharing a body with Batman. His intimidation factor is innate. 

Tim sighs. "C'mon. Let's go see if Alf's brought Goliath, because he secretly likes scaring the administrative staff."

"It's hardly much of a secret."

Tim laughs. "Fair." In truth, Tim suspects Alfred brings Goliath because Damian relaxes around him the way not even Titus can make him. The only other being Damian relaxes around that much is Jason. 

Who is standing in the school office. Damian steps back upon seeing this, most likely out of the deep-driven belief that anyone who knows about this incident will be disappointed in him, perhaps even ashamed of him. For a quick second, there's nothing but heartbreak on Jason's face, evident enough that even Tim, who's still working on reading him, sees it loud and clear. Then Jason comes toward them, scooping up Damian and says, "There was a bit of a…situation. Alfred couldn't make it. He said to have Tim drive back, though. I, uh, don't actually have a license yet. B's still working on logistics."

Also known as, Bruce is still trying to resurrect Jason from being legally dead. Tim holds out his hand for the keys. "We could stop for ice cream. Unless the situation requires us to be there."

Jason shakes his head and says softly, "O said it was mostly under control, Alf was just needed for a bit of interference on the main level."

Ah. Sometimes Bruce got visitors while he was dealing with Batman business, which required Alfred to maintain a veneer of normality. Jason asks, "Is that place on Front still around? The one that did the old-fashioned dipped cones?"

Even knowing Jason's older than him, the inherent youngness of the question catches Tim's breath. It occurs to him he might still be further in Dom headspace than he'd prefer, the protective instinct of it going overtime. He pulls in a breath and says, "Yeah. I love that place."

"I can walk to the car," Damian says.

Jason snorts. "Not a chance, midget."

*

Damian falls asleep half way through his ice cream—Jason's been waiting for it, swooping in to rescue the bowl before things can get too messy—and Tim bites his lip and says, "He's gonna drop when he wakes up, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Jason says honestly, because there's pretty much no way a drop is not going to happen. Then, because Replacement was absolutely stand-up about this whole thing and Jason's an asshole but not much of a liar, he says, "That's not on you, though. That's on the moldering cumbucket who put him in subspace and then didn't handle having done it."

Tim laughs, a shocked, punched out sound, at Jason's assessment of the other kid. He offers weakly, "Could've been an accident. Just kids being stupid."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "You ever accidentally push a sub down?"

Tim opens his mouth, but then closes it, shaking his head. Jason, now that he's paying attention to something that's not Damian, notices Tim's hands are trembling, and his ice cream is more a melted reservoir of chocolate than actually eaten. Jason asks, "Are _you_ dropping?"

"I—" Tim looks down. "Sometimes it happens. After a scene where I don't feel like I've done what I should, or if the sub doesn't like aftercare. It's fine. It passes."

"So does subdrop. Doesn't make it fun while it's happening."

Tim shrugs, fingers digging into the formica table top. "Like I said, I'm fine. Nothing bad happened to me. I'm—everything's okay."

Jason's never seen Dom-drop. He knows it occurs, of course. But it's less well understood than subdrop, because it's frowned upon, seen as unbefitting a Dom despite being hormonally and chemically induced, the same as subdrop. He scoops the last bit of his ice cream out and says, "C'mon, let's get you home."

Damian wakes a little when Jason picks him up, but Jason just says, "Gotcha, kiddo," and he settles. When they get to the car, Jason hands Damian to Tim. "Can you hold him? License or no, you can't drive like this, and I don't want him to wake up without human touch. He's gonna try and fake like he's fine anyway. Drop was…discouraged by Ra's, to say the least."

Tim takes Damian and gets them situated. Jason waits until they're belted in to drive. It's not far to the Manor. He gets out and goes around to get Damian, but when he gets there, Tim says, "Please, can—I just." His breathing picks up in a way that concerns Jason.

This is not really Jason's area of expertise. Subs aren't generally trained to talk down Doms, and until half an hour ago, he'd only been theoretically aware Dom-drop was real. Also, it's not his job to make his own damn replacement feel better. But…but that replacement is a sixteen year old kid who did his best to take care of Damian and who looks like he thinks he failed.

Jason squats down and says, "Just give him to me for a moment, Tim, so you can get out of the car. Then you can have him right back."

"Right, right. That's—" Tim forces a shaky laugh. 

Jason reaches in and pulls Damian out, because it's pretty clear Tim's not going to be able to hand him over. Tim's out of the car like a shot, then, taking Damian back and saying, "Sorry, sorry, I—"

Tucking a hand in the small of Tim's back, Jason steers them to Tim's room. He'd much rather his room or Damian's, but Tim needs to be on his own turf right now. When they get there, Jason herds Tim onto the bed, leaning down to strip off his shoes. Tim, still clutching Damian, says, "You're being nice."

The comment, made warily, causes Jason to feel a little sick to his stomach. "Yeah, I uh. I wasn't an asshole before I died. That was a fun side effect of the Pit and my abandonment issues."

"I know. I mean—I know all of that."

"I kinda owe you an apology, huh?"

"You could…instead you could be my friend."

"Baby steps, chickadee." Jason gets on the bed and hauls Tim back with him. It takes some work, but they get Damian resting between them. Jason curls a hand over Tim's hip. "Nap, okay?"

"Yeah, just a little bit."

*

Hal looks everywhere he can think of for Jason. He stops by Jason's and Damian's rooms, the library, and then the kitchen. He searches the gardens and even the cave, since every once in a while Jason sneaks down there when he thinks nobody's paying attention. Alfred is always paying attention, even if Bruce isn’t. And when it comes to the kids, usually, Bruce is.

Dick isn't in town and Bruce, Cass, and Babs are handling a Black Mask situation. Steph, Tim, and Damian should all be in school, so Hal finds Alfred. He's in the armory, doing an inventory. Hal says, "Good afternoon."

Alfred looks over with what Hal has learned is his "mildly perplexed" face. It looks like all his other faces. Bruce had a good teacher. Hal says, "I had Carol sub someone in for my last flight of the day. Bruce wanted me to talk to Jason, so I thought while nobody was around was good, but I can't find him. Know where he is?"

"He left a couple of hours ago to pick up Masters Timothy and Damian, there was an incident at the school, but they have since returned." Alfred places the tablet he's working on down.

Hal tilts his head. "What kind of incident?"

"It seems Master Damian was pushed down by another child. There is no evidence it was intentional." Alfred says all of this so calmly, if it wasn't the Bats, Hal'd have to be wondering if the other kid was dead by now. Hal has to push down the desire to go out and find the kid and put the fear of an intergalactic peace-keeping force with floating space prisons in him.

Instead he asks, "You're sure they're in the Manor?"

"The security system showed them returning roughly half an hour ago."

"Huh, okay. Thanks."

"You might check Master Damian's room."

"I have, so it's time to see if Jason gave Tim any idea as to where he was heading."

Alfred nods at that. Hal agrees with his unspoken "seems unlikely," but he's running short on options. He makes his way up to Tim's room and knocks softly on the door. He frowns when it's Jason's voice that softly asks, "Bruce?"

Hal peeks his head in the room. He stares at the scene before him for a few seconds. He blinks, but nope, the scene does not change. Jason is definitely cuddling both Damian _and_ Tim. The latter's practically smothering Damian. The kid seems to be breathing, though, so Hal figures it's not an issue.

Hal slips into the room. Jason won't look at him. He asks, "Everything okay?"

Jason just shakes his head. Hal shucks off his shoes and climbs on the bed. He slips behind Tim, who fusses, but doesn't wake—and that's a sign of something in and of itself, although Hal's not entirely certain what, yet—carefully choreographing that he plans to put his hand on Jason's arm. Jason, to his surprise, doesn't move or even challenge the choice with any kind of facial expression. Hal squeezes, just a little bit.

Jason murmurs, "Domdrop is real."

Oh. Yeah, Hal hadn't actually seen one until he was in his teens, either. It was only quickly discussed in sex ed, and rarely showed up in popular culture. Plus, his mom had done a good job of never letting him see hers when it had happened. He nods sharply. "Good job, getting them both back here and resting."

"Tim let me. I didn't know what to do."

"I know," Hal says. Jason looks about three seconds from drop himself, which shouldn't be chemically possible, but the kid's been dead and in a Lazarus Pit, so Hal's not ruling anything out. "I know, Jason, but you did good, and they're safe and you're safe. Everyone's safe."

Jason's breathing is shallow. Hal says, "Kid. You need—"

"I know," Jason says. It's sharp, with a thread of terror.

And even though this wasn't the plan, not at all, Hal says, "Please let Bruce take care of it, Jay. He's worried sick about you."

For a second after he asks, Hal's more than slightly concerned that Jason's too far along to say no, but Jason asks, "What if—what if I'm not how he remembers? What if—"

"Jay, sh, okay, just listen to me for a second, yeah?"

Jason proves basically every fear he's expressed wrong by nodding pliantly at Hal's request, but instead of appealing to rationality, which probably isn't highly present at this point, Hal just says, "He's gonna think you're great even if you fight like a caged pit bull. I promise. I swear on the fucking ring, okay? There's nothing you could do to make him think you aren't a good sub."

Jason spends a while turning this over in his mind. Hal does his best not to influence things one way or the other. Eventually, after what feels like forever, Jason nods. "Okay."

Hal says, "Why don't you try and get some sleep? I'll be here if Tim or Damian wakes up."

Also, Black Mask or no, as soon as Jason passes out, Hal's making a call.

*

Jason wakes up to the sound of his name being said by Bruce. At first he's not sure it's real. The Pit revs up all kinds of things, aural hallucinations being some of the least. He opens his eyes and scans the room, noting Tim and Damian wrapped up in each other on the reading chair Tim has in one corner of his room. There's water and snacks on the small table next to the chair, which Tim occasionally grabs and feeds to Damian. They both seem mostly fine, just clingy and a bit shaken.

He turns over and notes that Bruce is actually there. Bruce says, "Come with me," and Jason's breath bottoms out for what feels like the first time in days. It's stupid, how easily Bruce can get him to slide. Jason follows Bruce to the kitchen, where Bruce takes a seat at the island and motions him over. Jason stands in front of him.

Bruce puts a hand on Jason's shoulder and squeezes. Jason tries not to zone at the contact. He still startles a little when Bruce says, "Tell me one of the ingredients in molasses spice cookies."

Jason's breath catches. He's not down yet, not really, and at the point of desperation he's allowed himself to get to, lines are blurring. Johns used to like to do this, test him on some point of knowledge he wouldn't have learned yet in school, something they knew he would fail so they'd have excuses to punish him. Early on in tricking, when he was too much of a kid to know better, Jason told a john that the guy didn't have to come up with a story: he'd paid for the right. The punishment for reminding the john of what was actually going on was so severe Jason had been certain he'd die before it ended. He couldn't remember the details after. Those few hours were just gone. Jason is pretty sure it's better that way.

He surfaces from the spiral of panic to Bruce saying, "Jason Peter Todd," quietly and rhythmically. "It's not a trick question. You used to make them all the time with Alfred. Just tell me one ingredient."

Stupidly, Jason says, "Molasses," and then flinches, waiting to be taught better than to be a smart ass.

Bruce says, "Sounds like a good place to start. It should still be where it was always kept in the pantry. Go get it and bring it back. If you can't find it, call for me. Yes?"

Jason appreciates the prompt more than he can say. It makes answering, "Yes, sir," easy, and allows him to slip just a touch further.

Each time he comes back with an ingredient, Bruce tells him to name another one, and then bids him go get it. By the time he's genuinely struggling to remember if there's anything he's missing, he's down so far that nothing matters except this moment, doing what he's told now, being obedient this time. The drive wipes out everything else, the past, his panic, everything but telling Bruce the right ingredients, finding them, bringing them back.

When all the ingredients have been gathered, Bruce asks, "What's the first step to making the cookies?"

Down here, in this quiet, sweet space where Jason is valued and needed, he can remember this recipe like it is written inside of him, black and white. He's made these cookies a million times. Once Alfred had figured out they were Jason's favorite, he'd used making them together as a way to help Jason come down from nightmares, or work his way past a drop. Jason says, "Measure and mix the dry ingredients."

Bruce breaks each step down once Jason has given it to him, makes each element of the recipe an order. At some point, he starts sticking in small gestures and quick words of approval. Jason doesn't have the guards not to drink it in, not like this, but Bruce doesn’t retract any of it, not even when Jason makes mistakes, like losing the spoon for shaping the cookies in the dough. 

By the time the last batch is coming out of the oven, the first batch is still warm, but cool enough to eat. Bruce piles four on a plate and tells Jason to pour them both a glass of milk. He leads them over to the large window seat in the breakfast nook and settles himself so he can pull Jason into his side. Jason burrows in and happily takes the half cookie Bruce holds out to him, breaking it into smaller pieces and taking his time chewing. Everything is more intense when he's down this far, and he gets a little lost in the burst of flavors on his tongue.

Bruce rubs his back and tells him how proud he is of him, not just for how amazing the cookies are, but for asking for help, for taking care of Tim and Damian, for being the person he is. Jason eats what Bruce hands to him, and drinks when Bruce gives him the glass of milk. He lets the words crest over him, wrapping around him as warmly and steadily as Bruce's arms.

When they've finished, Bruce gives him orders through clean up, and then takes him on a run on the grounds. Jason's high as fuck on a combination of subspace and endorphins when they finish, and Bruce is smiling with both his eyes and his mouth. Jason hasn't really seen that since he's gotten back. 

Bruce instructs Jason to clean up and change and then come to the library. Jason finds Bruce in one of his favorite nooks, a spot with only floor pillows. It's dusk and the light streaming in is soft. Bruce, already settled in the pillow-nest, holds out his arm and Jason cuddles right in. Bruce says, "That's right, that's good, Jay. I gotcha."

Jason mumbles. "I might fall asleep, sir."

"If you do, you do. I've got you," he repeats. As if reading Jason's mind, he takes one of Jason's hands and puts it directly on the laundry-softened sweatshirt he's wearing. Jason can't help clasping it. Bruce says, "Good. Good. You just hold on."

*

It takes Tim four days to figure out who screwed with Damian, pull together a complete case, walk it into the principal's office, and get the little psychopath kicked out. He doesn't involve Bruce. Not because Bruce wouldn't help him, or be useful, but because this case is his to handle. It's not until after the kid is gone that he feels he can breathe.

Damian clearly suspects something. He keeps giving Tim odd looks and offering him chances to play fetch with Titus and Goliath. Tim isn't really the fetch-playing type, but he recognizes the gestures for what they are, and spends a half an hour or so a day on the grounds with Damian, throwing sticks. The kid is still mostly quiet, and pretty reserved when he does talk. Still, he's reaching out, and Tim's not going to throw that in his face. 

It calms something in Tim that Damian also seems less apprehensive about going to school once the kid is gone. Goliath is being reticent in bringing a stick back one day when Tim finds himself saying, "Damian, if anyone tries that again, you _hurt_ them, okay? Not enough to seriously cause harm, but enough to get away."

Damian frowns. "Father would not like that."

Tim blinks. "What? Why would you think that?"

"He says we are not to use our training and skills on those who are weaker than us."

Tim is trying to formulate an answer to that more eloquent than, "well, there are exceptions," when Damian says, "And it is not a sub's place to defy a Dom for simply performing in his natural role."

Tim thinks his jaw might actually drop open. "What?"

Damian reaches out to where Titus has returned, takes the stick and throws it. Calmly, as if he hasn't just said something completely and amazingly fucked up, he says, "That is what Grandfather always taught me."

Tim spends a moment having a glorious daydream about being the one to destroy the League of Assassins as a solo vigilante, ending in taking apart Ra's Al Ghul with his bare hands. Then he takes a deep breath. "So, if someone wanted to put Jason down and do whatever they wanted with him, that would be fine?"

Damian's body coils, and Tim can see the way he wants to lash out at the thought. Tim says softly, "It's a sub's place to choose to whom they submit, or if they even want to. It's everyone's right to make decisions about their bodily and emotional autonomy. Bruce would be the first person to tell you that. What do you think forcing a sub down is, other than using abilities against someone who can't defend against them?"

Goliath has finally wandered back, and Damian buries his fingers in the creature's fur. Softly, Tim says, "And Bruce would never, ever tell you not to defend yourself. He meant we aren't allowed to harm others because they're in the way, or just because it's easier or they're annoying. Trust me, Damian, Bruce would have kicked that kid's ass from here to Metropolis if he'd caught him trying to do something you didn't want to you."

Damian bites his lip. Tim's ninety percent sure the kid doesn't really believe him, which is only to be expected, but makes Tim want to get his staff and smash things. Instead, he says, "Hey, have you ever seen Oliver & Company?"

Damian shakes his head. "Is it an adaptation on Dickens?"

Tim shrugs. "I mean…I guess in a roundabout way. But it has animals and songs. We can make caramel popcorn and watch it."

"Like a movie night?" Damian sounds weirdly enchanted by this concept.

Tim wonders how they've somehow managed not to do one in the nearly half a year Damian's been with them. Granted, things have been in upheaval most of that time, but still, it seems like a pretty heinous oversight. He says, "Exactly like a movie night. I bet I can even get Hal to join us, if he's around, and definitely Steph and Cass."

Damian looks at the ground. "I would like that."

"Well then. Let's go pop some popcorn."

*

Once Bruce has re-established Jason's legal personhood, Jason passes the GED test on the first try, and dives into college admission forms. He researches which schools provide the best deals, and which offer more student aid and a broader range of work study. He digs into every scholarship site he can find, working to locate the ones he qualifies for.

He narrows his options down by making the choice to stay at the Manor in order to save on housing and food costs. Bruce has said he wants Jason here, and if he backs out on that later, well, Jason will figure out something then. But for now, it's one less expense.

Jason's trying to puzzle out what to write for his admissions essays one morning after he's done katas with Damian and sent the kid off to school. Bruce catches up to him in the gym, where he's lifting. Lifting helps Jason clear his mind, allows him to get to the thoughts that are useful. Bruce comes over to spot him, and asks, "Why are you applying to all local schools?"

Jason frowns. He hasn't told Bruce where he's applying. "Alfred?"

"Damian, actually. You're just about the only thing he'll willingly talk to me about. You and his pets."

Jason huffs a little bit at that. He's honestly not sure where Damian's hero worship comes from, but he's not a good enough guy to dissuade the kid. Jason doesn't doubt Damian will figure out that Jason's nothing special soon enough.

Bruce says, "If it's because you want to stay here, then that's…we'd all like that, of course."

Jason lifts weights off the rack a does a series of squats. "Maybe those are just my top choices."

"You're telling me that despite testing in the 98th percentile back when you were at least seven months behind all of your classmates, what you really dream about is attending Gotham U?" Bruce's voice is drier than the wine he drinks. And Jason once tried that shit. It's really dry.

"It has a good civil engineering program."

"So do Berkeley and GW."

Okay, Jason might have to have a small chat with Damian about what's for public consumption and what's just between them. 

"In fact, of the things Damian said you were thinking about, there are considerably better programs for all of them at Chicago, Michigan, WashU, and Berkeley. There are programs that specialize in sub-specific mentorship in the job market at Amherst, Penn, and Dartmouth. There are alternate learning programs that would probably appeal to your way of approaching things at Goucher, St. Johns, and Bennington."

"Sounds a lot like you don't want me to stay here," Jason says, and starts another set, despite knowing he should wait a little longer.

"I want you to do what's right for you. I want you to get to be a kid for four years. And if that means I have to let you out of my sight then—then I will."

Jason racks the weights, his legs shaking. "Really? You're not gonna have O bug my room and basically everywhere else I go?"

Bruce doesn't miss a beat. "I didn't say that."

Jason leans his head against the bar. "So why don't I just make it easier on everyone?"

"Because kids aren't supposed to be easy." Bruce's comment is so quiet Jason almost misses it. Almost.

"GU and GCU have some of the best financial packages anywhere in the country."

"Yes, because I fund most of them. You're not taking a financial package, Jason. You're going to let me handle tuition and room and board and a damn stipend if I feel like it."

"No," Jason says. "I get that you feel bad about what happened to me, but some child street hooker you took in for a few years is not actually your—"

"I didn't take in some child street hooker. I took in Jason Peter Todd, second Robin, great kid, _my_ kid. I've nearly got the papers to prove it. And if you think you're going to win this fight, either on the grounds that you're not my child, or on the grounds that you're paying for your own education, you are wrong. You have literally never been more wrong in your life, including that time you decided I had brought you home for Alfred's sake."

Jason flushes at the memory. "You swore never to bring that up."

"Yeah, I evidently lied. My point stands."

"And if I decide I want to attend La Sorbonne and major in medieval tapestry restoration?"

Bruce smirks. "Don't play chicken with me, Jay. You'll end up doing a lot of sewing."

Jason rolls his eyes and makes it his new goal in life to find the most ridiculous ass thing he can apply for and pour his heart into that shit.


	6. Make Me Aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Dick take a few significant steps toward getting to know each other better. Hal is totally the cool stepdad.

Jason's catching some quality alone time with Hilde the Gargoyle when Dick swings into his peripheral vision. Jason asks, "Don't you have a job?" but there's no real bite to it.

"They occasionally have to give me a day off. Something about employment laws, I dunno. What's got Bruce all riled up?"

Jason looks over at Dick, who shrugs. "Look, I'm not saying we don't fight three-quarters of the time we're in each other's presence, or anything, but it's not usually over something as stupid as whether there should be apple pie or pear tart for dessert. And before you ask, yes, I know I probably should have just backed away from that ledge, but sometimes my response to B is a little Pavlovian, so. That happened."

"You know Alfred will just make both, right?"

"Not the point. The point is that it's apple season, dammit, and there's no reason to go wasting this golden moment on shishi pear tarts."

"I like pear tarts."

"I—actually, I do too," Dick admits in that easy way he has for everyone in the world _but_ Bruce, and, to hear Hal talk about it, members of the League who aren't taking him seriously. "But Bruce likes apple pie, as well. Which makes the whole argument even stupider. Nice deflect, by the way, but seriously, what's crawled up his butt in this particular instance?"

Jason shrugs, not sure why he actually kind of wants to talk about this with Dick. "He wants to pay for me to go to school."

Dick says, "Yeah, 'course he does. You're his kid, he has a thing about paying for all his kids' educations."

Jason runs a hand over Hilde's rough surface. "In the circus, what happened if you owed someone something? Like, you needed a loan, or someone did you a favor?"

Dick tilts his head at the inquiry, but answers, "You worked out some kind of payment, maybe bargained, or maybe, if it was actually money, a payment plan of sorts. Sometimes—a lot of times-- there wasn't a sense of owing. We were…a team, I suppose. It's not quite a family, but there are parallels. Mostly, we figured it would all shake out."

Jason swallows. "The first time my dad sold me, I was nine. I'd presented about two years earlier, but I managed to hide it for a good while, and then he waited until he had a debt that if he didn't pay off, the holders of the note were gonna kill him. Sub virgins are a commodity in the Narrows."

Jason closes his eyes, not wanting to be able to see Dick, or anything, really. "I begged him not to. Begged the guy who bought me not to. But money was owed, money was paid, I was—"

"Jay."

Jason opens his eyes and looks over at Dick, who's got the saddest fucking eyes on the planet for a guy who is the life of the party six out of seven days of the week. It's not pity, though. Empathy might be too strong a word, but Jason can sense the compassion in Dick, and it's settling. Jason quirks a smile because he's not sure what else to do. "I'm just saying. Debt for me is—there's a very specific meaning attached. And even if we assume the slate was wiped clean with my death, I kinda owe Bruce for stuff this second time around, too. I'd like to limit the debt, is all."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Jason isn't really in the mood to argue, but that level of ease with giving in is un-Bat-like and worthy of suspicion.

"Well, I mean, no, nothing about what you just said is remotely okay, and I now understand that I'm going to have to mount an unusually subtle attack to get you to understand that you don't now and will never owe any of us, because that's not how we work, but for moment, yes, I hear what you're saying and it's a reasonable concern from where you're sitting, and well, okay."

Since he's not sure how to respond to the meat of that, Jason says, "You don't have a subtle bone in your body. Or muscle. Or even a tendon."

"You're such an asshole." Dick laughs. "And seriously? That was what you got out of that?"

"I pick up on the important shit," Jason informs him loftily.

Dick snorts. "Shit is right."

*

Jason's in the library, eking out the beginnings of a college admissions essay when Dinah saunters in. It's been a while since he's seen her, but she hasn't changed much. She's in workout clothes, her hair pulled back and she's still objectively stunning. She smiles and says, "Hey Jay."

Jason tilts his head. "Dinah."

"Starting from a place of total honesty, Bruce asked me to chat with you. But all of us have been chomping at the bit to see you since we found out you were back, so he didn't have to ask twice."

"Chat with me," Jason says flatly. He knows Dinah is the designated mental health professional of the Titans because of her social work license. "He think I'm unstable?"

"Come off it," she says. "He thinks you could use someone who can see the big picture and who's not a part of the Bat'verse to talk with. It's neither more complicated nor sinister than that."

The thing is, being a Bat without being in the Titans or the League or going to school or having any outlet from the, well, Bat'verse, can be a little intense. When she puts it like that, it kind of makes sense. He shuts the laptop he's been not typing on for over an hour now and says, "Okay."

"Wanna spar?"

"I thought we were going to talk."

"You can't talk and spar at the same time? What kind of Bat are you?"

Jason blinks at that and then follows her out of the library. She has a point.

They go down to the gym where the mats are and set up an easy back and forth, neither of them really tapping the depths of their abilities, simply getting a feel for the other's rhythm and style. She says, "So, Damian is Bruce and Talia's, huh?"

"Yeah," Jason says.

"Makes sense. He's always had a thing for deeply independent and not entirely sane, current partner included."

"Says the woman who's married to Oliver Queen."

She laughs. "Trust me, I never said I had better taste."

Jason grins and goes in for a quick combo, none of his hits lands, but then, neither does any part of her retaliation. When they're circling each other again, she asks, "What about you? What's your type?"

Jason shrugs. "Dunno." He actually manages to land a punch with his next volley, but she lands a kick, so they're still equal. 

"Just never thought about it?" she prompts.

"It never mattered," he says without thinking. It stops him for a moment that it probably does, now, but she doesn't take the opening. 

Instead, she waits until he's back on his game to come at him. She has him pinned on the floor when she says, "Maybe you should consider it, now."

He breaks and pin and acknowledges, "Maybe."

*

Less than a week later, Jason awakens to a text from Dick asking, "Hey, can you make it out to the Haven by eleven today? Something I want you to see."

Jason doesn't respond immediately. He makes himself coffee and joins Damian for their morning katas. He takes a run with Goliath at his side once Damian's at school, considering his interactions with Dick over the past couple of weeks, in the library, on the roof, the way Dick has listened and not judged. He pokes a bit at the part of himself that has always wanted a little piece of Dick, friendship or a swath of his kind cheerfulness, or—or something else. It doesn't twinge as much as Jason expects it to. 

He finishes the run and responds, "Yeah, okay. Where should I meet you?"

Dick texts an address that, well, okay, nowhere in Blüdhaven is really a _good_ part of town, but this is definitely a _bad_ part. Jason texts back, "Should I come armed?"

"With your unending charm," Dick shoots back. Jason rolls his eyes, but he shows, mostly unarmed. (Knives don't count. Knives are tools.)

Jason opens the door to the fairly non-descript four-story building. It's run down, but pretty clean and decently well-cared for given the area. Inside, he can hear kids. A lot of them. Dick's in the front entrance, standing next to an athletic, dark-skinned woman with a shaved head. They both have BPD uniforms on, and the woman is holding a guitar case. 

Dick grins and says, "Jay! Hi, this is Officer Jackson. She's here because nobody wants to hear me sing."

Officer Jackson holds out her free hand and says, "Cindy. Dick's told me a lot about you."

Jason shakes her hand. "Uh. Oh. Huh."

She laughs at his eloquence. Dick, who might be a little flushed, turns away saying, "C'mon, let's get this party started."

Jason follows Dick and Cindy into an elevator and up a few floors, where they decamp into what seems to be an open play area. Jason looks at the kids spread throughout, some coloring at tables, others playing with construction toys, paper airplanes, and a passel of really old stuffed animals. They probably range in age from about five to eleven or so, if Jason's eyeballing it correctly. There's a fairly even split of boys and girls, with some here and there that Jason can't determine, and a couple who might be trans, if he's reading the signs right. There's a broad range of ethnicities and races.

In fact, the only thing the kids all seem to have in common is that they are all, to a one, exhibiting sub tendencies. And suddenly Jason catches on. They're not at a daycare or a school. They're at a Children's Home.

Sub children are three times more likely to be kicked out of a home once they present, and only half as likely to find an adoptive family as Dominant or dual-dynamics. Children's Homes are a patchwork solution to the problem, many of them places where sub children are given a roof and meals, but end up abused sexually, physically, emotionally, or some combination thereof by staff.

But if the police are visiting regularly, if the police are someone the kids can _trust_ , that—that probably makes the kids a lot safer. It doesn't pass Jason's notice that easily a third of the kids mob Dick and Cindy the second they step out of the elevator. Several of them pipe up to ask about the new guy, and Dick says, "This is my friend, Jason. Say hi, everyone."

There's a chorus of hellos, and Jason says, "Hey, hi."

"Story time?" Dick asks. There's pretty rousing agreement from the peanut gallery, and Dick hoists one of the tinier kids up onto his shoulders, then picks up two more, one with each arm and leads the rest over to a corner stocked with less-than-full bean bags and couch cushions that have seen better days, but the kids crowd around, seeming unbothered by the drabness of their little reading nook.

Dick looks over at Jason and asks, "Wanna help? We're reading 'Phantom Tollbooth'. You can spell me after a chapter."

They read chapters nine through twelve this way, then Cindy takes over with her guitar and a voice that makes Jason think of the forties-era singers Alfred likes to listen to, Josephine Baker and June Christy in particular, but her playing is upbeat, mostly sixties folk, some India.Arie, and a Disney tune here and there. Afterward, she teaches the kids who are interested how to strum a few bars of Under the Sea, while Dick quietly lopes around, checking on kids who are hiding, too shy to come over and join. Jason observes a bit, but also helps a couple of kids trying to sound 'The Giving Tree' out.

They're only there for a couple of hours, but by the time they leave, Jason's ready to crawl back in bed and sleep forever. Dick glances over at him and says, "Hey, Jackson, can you take the car back to the station?"

"Sure," she says, catching the keys he tosses. "Nice to meet you, Jason. You should come back next week if you've got the time. As you can see, there's not really enough of us to go around."

He smiles at her. "Think you could do some Johnny Mathis next time?"

"Wait, you mean Grayson here has friends with decent taste in music?"

"I have fantastic—" Dick starts, only to be cut off by Cindy's, "You consider 80s-era Cindy Lauper to be the height of musical achievement. I'm not saying the woman doesn't have skills, but I am saying I learned half the Disney songs I know because you whined at me until I did, and you should consider what that means about your musical palette." 

Dick points a finger. "The kids love those songs and you know it."

Jason snorts. "I, uh. I didn't grow up with much music. I like pretty much all of it. But, yeah, I like Mathis. A lot of forties and fifties stuff, I guess."

"Good eras." She nods. "Yeah, come back, I'll cook something up for you."

He waves. "Nice to meet you."

When she's gotten in the car and driven off, Dick asks, "You okay? I probably shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. I'm sorry, I—"

Jason asks, "Can we—can we get some food?"

"I've got Alfred meals at my place. Or I can take you to a diner. Or, oh, there's a really great little Cantonese place where the owners like me because I dealt with a neighborhood bully who was beating up their kid. Whatever you want."

Jason needs quiet, some space to breathe and think. He's not sure anything less than his own room is going to offer that, but he says, "Can we take the Cantonese to the park by the community center?"

The park hosts a lot of indigents and at night is a place for more than bit of rough trade, but during the day it's at least a space with grass and trees and where you can see the sky. It's different from most of Blüdhaven in that way. It's early spring, and there's still a bite in the air, but it's more refreshing than cruel.

Dick cautiously puts a hand to Jason's lower back, not precisely possessive, but certainly a little more than just protective. "Yeah, that's perfect, let's do that."

Jason doesn't lean into the touch. He doesn't, but he damn well wants to.

*

They find a bench in the park and Jason digs around the cartons until he finds the char siu, then dives in. Dick hands him his Dr. Pepper, and plucks out a carton of his own. Jason chews for a while. "Cindy a sub?"

With kids it's easy to tell. They haven't learned how to hide any of the signals. Adults are much harder, sometimes impossible. Dick shakes his head. "Dual. Husband's dual, too. They're foster parents. I think they've got three fosters with them right now."

"Sub kids?"

"Dunno, they pretty much take whomever the agency sends them. It changes."

Jason nods and goes back to concentrating on his food. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Couple of years. There was, uh. I helped with a change in management, you could say, during my day job. And I got attached."

Jason swallows and breathes. "Corruption or abuse?"

"Both," Dick says softly.

Jason nods. Dick silently holds out his carton of chow fun in offer. Jason exchanges his for it. They share amicably until they've gone through those dishes, as well as the fish balls and crispy duck. Dick puts everything back in the bag and trots off to deliver it to a trash receptacle. Jason has the passing thought that the action sums Dick Grayson up: searching for a probably empty garbage can in a park filled with litter.

Dick returns and asks, "You okay? Was I—should I not have asked you to come?"

Jason glances over to the outer edge of the park. Next to a sidewalk, there's a lone perennial, struggling up from the ground. He wonders if there were once more, and that one has simply managed to survive where all the rest have not. Or perhaps the seed was carried on the wind, once safe in someone's window box, or maybe even a community garden. 

"Jason?" Dick asks, sounding concerned.

"I need—" He bites his lip. He shouldn't need to go down this soon. It won't have even been a month for a few days yet. He can usually force himself to make it at least a month and a half. But he's been fighting the urge for nearly a week, now.

Dick must put the pieces together from Jason's hesitance, maybe from body language because he says, "Yeah, no, of course, that—lemme call B, tell him he needs to get his ass home, and I'll drive, it's cool, I can get Khoury to cover the rest of my shift. He owes me a couple."

Despite himself, Jason feels his shoulders hunch. Dick squats down in front of him, so they're almost eye-level, or would be, if Jason weren't staring determinedly at the ground. "No good? Is B dealing with League stuff? Because I know a good service, well-vetted, highly recommended—"

"Dick." 

Dick shuts up, even though Jason's statement is quiet. He says, "Yeah, Jay?"

"Don't—don't make me beg. I don't like begging." In fact, Jason fucking _hates_ begging. But he doesn't know that he can stand to have Dick hand him over to someone else right now, either. He can't be a mess too big to handle for someone who spends his nights saving a lost city and his days policing it. Even if that's what he is. He can't be that right now.

"You—you'd let me?"

Jason blinks, looking up at the unhidden awe in Dick's voice. And, okay, now that Jason is forcing himself to focus on something other than his own issues, he can see how that probably was not obvious. He digs his fingernails into his jeans. "No sex. Standard safewords. Unless there's a good reason you've explained to me, you can't leave me alone while I'm down. No matter what, you can't leave the premises until I've come back up."

Dick says, "I—of course not. Jesus. Any triggers I need to know?"

"No age play, canes, anything that seems even a little bit like a crowbar, no fire, and no mommy/daddy language."

Dick swallows. "Easy enough. My place okay? Because if you need some neutral ground, there's a hotel a few miles from here that's clean and well-kept."

Jason shakes his head. "Your place."

"Okay. Standard safewords, starting now."

"We're not in the scene."

"Don't care. I do something you don't want me to from this moment on out, you yellow if it's something you think we can work around, red if you need to just stop."

Something about the order helps Jason to draw a deep breath. He hasn't managed since he first realized he was going to admit what he needed to Dick, going to bare this part of himself to a man who has always caused a million conflicting emotions in him. He murmurs, "Yes, sir."

Dick runs his fingers through Jason's hair and says, almost too quietly to hear, "I honestly don't know how anyone has ever seen you as anything less than the perfect submissive you are."

Jason gasps at the…it's not even praise, it's a straightforward observation with all the connotations of praise. Dick stands, taking one of Jason's hands and pulling him to his feet. He keeps hold of one of Jason's hands and says, "C'mon, let's go home."

*

Dick herds both of them into his bedroom and pulls down the shades. He rubs at the back of his neck and says, "Ah, sorry it's a total pit."

Jason laughs, then helps Dick to toss the clothes that are everywhere into one central pile, and works with him to straighten the bed. Soon enough, they've finished, and Dick stands, looking uncertain. Jason crosses to where the light switch is and flips it on. He's never had to be the one to say this, but he tells Dick, "You don't have to. We can call one of those services."

Dick shakes his head. "No. No, I—Jason, believe me, I want to. I'm just…" he laughs, stilted and alien sounding, "terrified, I guess. That I'll mess it up and you'll hate me and—"

Jason puts a hand to Dick's chest to get him to stop talking. "You can do this."

Dick looks at him for a long moment and Jason's not sure it's going to work. But then Dick _listens_ , hears Jason like he has again and again in these past weeks, nods, and says, "Yeah, okay." There's another beat before he orders, "Shirt, shoes, socks, and pants off, lie down on your stomach on the bed."

Jason blinks at that. He'd been pretty explicit about the no-sex thing. Dick catches the movement and taps a finger to Jason's nose. "Trust me, Little Wing. I've got you."

This only works the way Jason needs it to if he can trust, and he's the one who pressed the point of it being Dick, so he shucks off the pieces of clothing Dick told him to, folds them, and places them on the windowsill, then lies down.

"Arms at your sides," Dick says. 

Jason complies and Dick says, "Yes, sir." 

Jason takes a breath. "Yes, sir."

There's the sound of a jar being opened, and Dick putting something on his hands. The smell of lemon and…something else, something that reminds Jason of the teas Alfred sometimes makes, spreads through the room. It's delicious and calming at once. Dick lays both palms, fingers outspread, on Jason's shoulder blades. His hands are warm and clearly covered in lotion or oil. Jason closes his eyes, sinking into the sensation of the touch.

Dick says, "I'm going to give you a massage. You're a bundle of knots, so it will hurt at times. If you can stand the pain, I want you to breathe through it. If you can't, I want you to say yellow. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"So good," Dick breathes, and then begins.

The thought flits through Jason's mind that Dick has been trained in this at some point. He knows where to press and where to soothe, what can be released and what he will just aggravate the muscle further. Jason writhes and whimpers and even sobs at one point, because Dick isn't being gentle with the worst of the areas where Jason has tied his own muscles into multi-layered knots, but every time Dick asks, "All right?" Jason responds, "Yes, sir," and sinks a few inches deeper, until he's so far down he almost _wants_ the pain, just to show Dick he can take it.

Dick prods him onto his back at some point, and goes to work on that. He works at the palms of Jason's hands, the pads of his feet, even the surface of his face. Every time Jason manages the pain, gets to the other side, where the knot is released, Dick buries him in praise, about how strong he is, how good, how obedient.

Jason drinks it in, breathes it alongside the lemon. When Dick has finished with the massage proper, he soothes every inch he's touched, before crawling into the bed, cuddling Jason to him. He says, "Sleep, just for a bit."

Jason's more than three-fourths there, so it's impossibly simple to burrow into Dick and take direction. He wakes to the soft beeping of an alarm, and Dick pulling him up against the headboard, wrapping him in a throw. He sits facing Jason and says, "I'm gonna bring you back up now, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Jason mumbles, sleepy and floating, okay with pretty much whatever. 

"Jay, I want you to tell me about the school programs you're looking into."

Jason has to dig for the information. Eventually, he finds it. "I wanna do architectural engineering with an emphasis on looking for ways to reclaim and rethink urban spaces for affordable housing. Cal Poly and Penn State both have good programs, but I could create my own through the architecture and engineering schools at MIT and Cornell. I doubt I can get into either of those, but that'd be pretty amazing."

Dick keeps asking questions, then, starting with, "Have you ever been to any of the places those schools are in?" and Jason answers until he's really and truly surfaced. Dick seems to notice the transition, because he says, "Stay here, I'll be right back."

He returns with a glass of water, one of orange juice, and a bowl of cashews. He alternates between tipping the glasses to Jason's lips, or feeding him the cashews, and letting Jason take what he wants on his own. When the last of the water is drained, Dick asks, "You okay?"

Jason quirks a smile. "That was…" He foregoes the _fucking wow_ that actually wants to spill off his lips and settles for, "good. You were good."

Dick grins, lighting up the disorganized, ugly little bedroom. Jason hates how attractive he finds that smile, how much he wants to drink it in, how there's no part of him that's frustrated, or angry, or just plain jealous of how gorgeous Dick is, how sweet. Dick as the Golden Boy Jason wants to be but also wants to kick in the balls is one thing. Dick being everything Jason wants is entirely another. And there's no question in Jason's mind which one is more likely to end in disaster.

*

Jason stays in Blüdhaven that night, patrolling with Dick. The black bodysuit with armor he's been using as a uniform is back in Gotham, so he makes due with the black cargo pants he'd come in, a black t-shirt from Dick that comes perilously close to tearing, a ski cap and a domino mask. He glances at himself in the mirror and mumbles, "Seriously have to talk to Alfred about an actual get up."

Dick has an extra utility belt, which he hands to Jason to strap on. Actually Dick has four extra utility belts, which seems a bit like overkill, but also, Dick was trained by Bruce, so Jason gets it. It isn't until they're roof hopping that Jason realizes that while his bruises might currently have bruises, he can move in ways he can't remember ever being able to move.

"Have you considered that you missed your calling?" he asks Dick.

"In…professional storytelling?" Dick responds. "Because, yeah, performance was kind of on the short list, but it seemed like it'd make the whole double life thing harder."

"Massage therapy," Jason corrects.

Dick laughs. "I feel like I can safely say I made the right choice in that instance. But seriously, get yourself a therapist. It was like working on Superman."

"Have you done that?"

"Given him a massage? No. But I have hugged him, so I have some idea of what it would entail. Which, among other things, is a jackhammer."

"Never knew you felt that way about him," Jason snarks.

"No, no, that is not—stop. Jesus. You're lucky I wasn't in between roofs."

Jason grins. "Seriously? You've never even thought about it?"

"What is wrong with you? He's like a third father to me."

"Mhm," Jason says. Look, he was alive and had eyes when Dick was eighteen. "A third father you wanted to bang."

"Okay, just so we're clear, the only reason you didn't have awkward crushes on members of the Justice League is because you had the intelligence to stay dead for the worst years of puberty."

There's a shock of heavy silence over the comms and Dick starts to say, "Oh Jesus, Jay, I'm—" only to be cut off by Jason laughing so hard he has to stop running and just bend over and breathe for a bit. 

"That's taking the glass-half-full approach to the extreme, don't you think?" Jason asks.

Dick rolls to a stop by him. "I'm just correctly pointing out that if you're a ball of raging hormones around a group of objectively hot people who spend their lives pursuing justice, things are almost certain to get a little awkward at points. We all grow past it."

Jason finally manages to catch his breath. "Which is to say, you no longer want to bone Superman."

Dick pauses. "I mean. Would anyone _really_ kick Superman out of bed?"

Jason takes a moment to actually consider the question. "Maybe a member of an alien species that doesn't find humanoids attractive?"

"Possible, but still a reach, I think."

"Yeah. For the record, I'm pretty sure I would have also followed Diana and Dinah around like a puppy if I'd—if."

"Solid choices. Is that—are you only into women?"

Jason considers lying, but the thought makes him tired. Instead, he shrugs. "Not sure."

"Not—oh." Dick sits down on the nearby parapet. "Um, you haven't?"

Jason paces for a moment, then pushes out the words, "Not by choice. Not with either."

He expects Dick to press the issue, to ask more questions he doesn't want to answer. Instead, he stands up and says, "Let's try over by the abandoned church on Brevoir. Shit always seems to go down there."

Jason smiles tightly at the reprieve, and follows Dick into the patchily-lit Blüdhaven night.

*

Hal is looking for the book he was in the middle of reading. He loses stuff in the manor constantly. For one thing, it's got eighty-two gajillion rooms. He counted. For another, Alfred likes to screw with everyone by "straightening up," also known as "putting your stuff somewhere else just to watch you stumble around searching for it." And, honestly, Hal tends to forget where he set things down in the first place. It's a deadly combination for him and his earthly possessions, all told.

So, yeah, he's looking for the biography of Sally Ride that he was three-fourths done with before getting called off planet when he instead finds Jason, squeezed into one of the architectural alcoves, curled up as small as a guy who’s the size of a small freight train can manage.

Hal's not proud of himself, but he considers just turning the other way for a minute. Oh, he'd get Bruce or Alfred, he wouldn't just _leave_ the kid. Still, it's not his most shining moment. 

Instead, he sits down and says, "Hey there, Jay."

Jason spooks at his voice, cramming himself further into the alcove. Hal puts up his hands in the planet-wide (not universal, as it turns out) sign for "not gonna hurt you."

Jason takes several deep breaths. Hal can hear how forced they are. "Drop?" he guesses, even though, so far as he knows, Bruce hasn't done a session with Jason in close to a month.

Jason nods. "Yeah. Asswipe brain chemicals. Being a town over from the Dom who took me down should not be some fucking big hurdle."

Hal's not so sure about that. He has yet to meet a sub, even on the weaker side of the spectrum, himself included, who is completely okay with being in a separate place entirely from a Dom who's brought them into subspace for a few days afterward. And since Jason's dynamic skews pretty hard toward sub, it's unreasonable to expect this not to be a problem. So, really, of course Jason expects himself to just tough it out instead of accepting the perfectly human limitation of sometimes needing someone or something. Fucking Bats. Hal's actively disgusted by how fond even the epithet sounds in his brain. Jesus.

Hal refocuses on Jason and the bigger question. "Are you still hiring Doms?"

Jason looks out the window with an intensity that tells Hal he is attempting to mentally transport himself anywhere else. Hal says, "I'm not saying you shouldn't, just that there's—"

"It was Dick. I asked—I needed the session and he was there and—"

"Cool," Hal cuts him off, since if Jason keeps going, his shoulders are going to mold themselves into his ear canals. "As long as you're playing safe, whatever, Jay."

Jason's expression is suspicious, but after a bit he seems to accept that Hal's being genuine. Hal says, "I'm guessing if you haven't done it, you probably wouldn't appreciate me calling him."

"If by 'not appreciate' you mean 'would find a way to make sure you live out the rest of your days in torture and misery if you so much as think about it' then yes, you have guessed correctly."

Hal bites back a sigh. The worst part is, he gets where Jason is coming from. It's one thing to call the Dom you need while in a drop even if you _do_ trust them. And Hal's pretty certain trusting _anyone_ isn't completely on the menu with Jason yet. So, time for another tack. "Look, if Bruce asks, I never mentioned this, but have you ever tried boozy milkshakes while in a drop?"

Jason looks at him blankly. Hal rubs a hand over his face. "I'm not saying this is like, a solution to the overall issue, or anything. But every once in a while, ice cream and vodka really does fix everything."

"Alfred will kill me if I get drunk in this house. He might kill you, just to set an example."

"Not if we ask him to make the milkshakes."

Jason rocks back and forth. He's obviously considering it, though, so Hal just lets him think. Finally, he says, "I've never been drunk."

"It would be irresponsible of me as your not-step-parental-at-all figure to let you go off to college without experiencing that in a controlled environment."

Still rocking, Jason decides, "Seems legit."

Hal holds out a hand and hauls Jason to his feet when the kid takes it. He claps Jason on the shoulder. "C'mon. Let's see if we can't kill two birds with one stone."

"That's an astronomically fucking terrible metaphor in this house."

"Yeah, thought about that a second after I said it."

There's a notable pause before Jason asks, "It's B's hard rule against killing that's keeping you alive, isn't it?"

Hal snorts. "Until now, I hadn't come up with a reason, but that seems like it might be the answer."

*

Babs likes to pick Tim and Damian up from school on Tuesdays and take them somewhere. Sometimes it's a video arcade, where she schools both of them at pretty much everything; sometimes, if the weather is good, a park. She takes them to hole in the wall restaurants where she knows the owners because she helped them get health insurance, or find a contractor, or whatever they needed, somehow she was on top of it. Basically, she shows them Gotham from the eyes of Oracle, while just being Babs, their older sister-like figure. Tuesdays are Tim's absolute favorite day ever.

It's solidly spring now, with school nearly over, so she takes them down to one of the few areas near the water that's safe for families and, well, people who aren't vigilantes in general. The two of them watch as Damian looks for seashells and now and again chases after seagulls. 

Babs asks about school and other daily life topics before asking, "How's Jason?"

Tim misses a beat. He's so used to thinking of her knowing everything worth knowing. He raises an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

Babs smirks, but says, "You tell Bruce or Dick this and I will cut off your access to the web in its entirety, but at least half of what I know is based on being able to read you guys because I _know_ you. Jason—Jason is not the kid I knew."

"For the record, I'd find a way around your block," Tim says, trying not to bristle at the implication that there's something wrong with Jason. They're not exactly friends, really, but since the truce over Damian, they’ve definitely been more comfortable around each other, and it's pretty obvious Jason's struggling just to feel like he's got a safety line at the moment. Also, Tim thinks there is a lot of pre-Death Jason in there, it's just hidden behind a solid wall constructed from terror.

She must hear something in his voice, because she says, "Hey, I'm not judging. I'm not the person I was before I was shot. And I lived to tell the tale. I just can't read him the way I can the rest of you. So, I know he's splitting patrolling between here and Blüdhaven, but I don't know if that's because he wants to, or because Dick guilted him into it to keep an eye on him. I know he hasn't come up with a uniform or a calling card yet, but I don't know if that's because he doesn't plan on staying, or because he's not comfortable enough in his own skin to choose. I know the facts. I just don't know anything else or more."

It makes sense. Tim watches Damian frown over something—probably failing at some self-assigned task—and says, "If it's any consolation, I don't think Jason has much idea, either."

"Mostly that makes me feel sorry for him."

Damian's heading back to them now, shoes in one hand and something—presumably shells—in the other. Tim says, "Welcome to the club. We're trying pretty hard not to let on, since it'd probably end with him killing all of us in our sleep."

"Hrm," is Bab's response to that assertion, which is notably not agreement.

Damian sidles up to Tim and says softly, "I got dirty, sorry."

Tim bites back a sigh. "Kind of the point, Dami. What'd you bring?"

Damian digs a still-bare toe into the sand. "I was trying to bring Ms. Gordon something pretty."

Babs has tried getting Damian to unbend enough to even call her Ms. Barbara at least a million times. Tim doesn't think she's given up, per se, but there's definitely been a strategic retreat. She smiles, "Yeah? What'd you find?"

He opens up his palm to show two small, iridescent shells. He mumbles, "They don't match."

Carefully, Babs takes them from his palm. "They're gorgeous, Damian. Why does it matter that they don't match?"

Damian doesn't look up from where he's focused on his toes. "I wanted them to match. So you could make earrings or…or something."

"I can still make earrings," Babs tells him. "And they'll be more interesting and wonderful because they're each unique and real."

Damian glances up at that, watching Babs, as if trying to seek out the lie. "My mom didn't like to wear anything that wasn't symmetrical."

Babs shrugs. "Everyone has their own taste, I guess."

Damian tilts his head. "You like things that aren't perfect?"

Tim's breath catches in his throat, because there's no way to pretend they're talking about shells or jewelry anymore. Damian's question is too raw, too pointed. Tim's going to have to talk to Bruce about explaining exactly why Talia sent Damian to them. For the moment, though, he rescues Babs from having to craft a response by saying, "Nothing's perfect, little D."

Babs adds, "But a lot of things are perfect in their imperfection," and touches a finger gently to his nose. He scrunches his nose up, but then summons up a tiny smile. 

Tim thinks, _yeah, kid, I know. Easy to say._


	7. Vary My Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal does more step-parenting. Bruce does some parenting. Romance is in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features art by the wonderful [@ShaniGrim](https://twitter.com/shanigrim?lang=en)! You should let them know you like it!

Jason is trying to de-stress over college application deadlines by beating the crap out of one of the bags in the cave when Bruce comes and steadies the bag. Jason's not ready to stop yet, but he gets the feeling Bruce would let him keep going even at risk to himself and that's not really what Jason wants, either. A few months ago he's pretty sure he would have dived right in. It's been a few months, though, and evidently Jason has grown. Or just gotten tired.

Jason starts undoing the tape on his hands. "Hm?"

Bruce clears his throat in a way that makes Jason uneasy, but he just keeps at the tape. Bruce says, "Your papers, the ones we—all the official documents that allow you to be recognized as alive, they say Jason Peter Todd."

Jason nods. "Yes. That's my name."

"I had wanted to ask this before we did those papers, but my attorney informed me that would make things take longer, and the last thing you needed was for your return to legal personhood to be slowed in any way."

In anyone else, Jason would call what's happening right now rambling. That word seems weird in connection with Bruce, but he also can't come up with a different one. "B, what—"

"I'd like to legally adopt you. Have you…have your name be Jason Peter Wayne."

The tape he's been holding drops from Jason's fingers. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is, "I'm nineteen. Legally."

"Yes. There's not a cut-off. I could technically adopt Alfred tomorrow if we agreed on it."

Jason's legs aren't feeling as steady as they were a few moments before. He finds himself asking, "Why? I mean—you let me stay in the house and you're going to pay for school, you don't, you don't _get_ anything."

Bruce says softly, "I get you."

"That's not—" Jason cuts himself off, rubbing at his face.

"That's not what, Jay?"

Jason looks up at him and says as evenly as he can, "That's not a prize."

The muscle in Bruce's jaw tightens and he says, "We'll have to agree to disagree on that count."

Jason laughs, he can't help it. "Since when have you _ever_ let someone disagree with you?"

"Strangely, Hal's been good for my emotional growth. Please don't tell him I said that."

The words are light, but Bruce's whole demeanor is that of…that of a kid who expects to be kicked. Jason knows everything about that body language. "This is—this is so you can ground me, isn't it?"

"Yes, Jason, that is the underpinning vile motive of my entire plot."

"Okay, well, I guess in that case, yeah. I'd be okay with it."

Jason can see the moment it hits Bruce that he's agreeing. There's a sort of ripple of disbelief and then a hard wave of it. Bruce says, "Jason—"

"Yes, Bruce. I'll sign the papers. I'll…I'll be your son."

Bruce shakes his head. "You are my son. You have been from the second I took you home. But you keep forgetting. I'm going to make it impossible for you to forget."

Jason blinks at him. Bruce shakes his head again and says, "C'mon, Alfred wanted you to pick dinner tonight. I promised I'd bring you back up with me."

It takes several seconds after Bruce turns to go up the stairs, but eventually, Jason forces his body into motion, and follows.

*

Dinah comes for her weekly "sparring session" a day after Jason has signed the papers to make his last name officially Wayne. Jason appreciates the fiction of it being something other than her trying to straighten him out more than usual, because he needs the movement, the cautious planning of their back-and-forth. He needs, even more than that, not to have to think about what he's saying when she asks, "What's it feel like, being a Wayne?"

He wants to say, "Same as yesterday," and to some extent, it would even be true. Nothing has changed that he can point to, put his finger on, show off. She kicks high. He ducks and says, "Safer."

Nothing is safe, Jason knows that. Bruce will not always be able to be there, even if Jason does bear his name. But on some level, it makes Jason believe, in a way he couldn't before, that Bruce wants to try.

"Sounds nice," Dinah says mildly, even as she lands a punch to his gut. 

He grunts and fails to retaliate. "Isn't that what everyone wants? To be safe?"

They circle each other for a bit. She's breathing a little heavier than normal, which is Jason's only saving grace at this point. She says, "I'm not sure there's anything everyone wants. That's a pretty sweeping category. But sure, I think most people want to feel safe."

"Is it—is it easier for D-types?" He goes in low and almost, almost gets her, but she dances away at the last second, coming down with an elbow to his shoulder.

He hisses and pulls back into a ready stance. She shakes her head. "I dunno, I've never been anything but a D-type. Is it easier for men?"

Jason grants her a laugh. "Point taken."

There's another flurry of movement, and Jason finally manages to land a kick. He says, "Conventional wisdom says we're not supposed to rely on others to feel safe or whole."

"Conventional wisdom is for people who've never had to be unconventional to survive."

He evades one of her kicks. "So you don't think that's true?"

"I think there's strength in depending on yourself in times of trouble. But I think there can be even more strength in trusting others to come through for you. Each is its own type of struggle and they're both struggles worth facing. But it doesn't make one way or the other better."

She gets another few hits in, and he manages two before tapping out, going to grab water. "Which means, what?"

She smiles. "Balance in all things, grasshopper."

He goes at her with a flying kick.

*

Hal meets Dick for coffee in Dick's territory, because Dick has asked. In turn, Dick hands him a cup of coffee and Hal takes a sip. He blinks, looks down at the thoroughly non-descript white disposable coffee cup and says, "What _is_ this?"

"Best Turkish coffee anywhere in Blüdhaven or Gotham." Dick grins. "Jason found it. It's a guy in a truck whose parents emigrated from Cyprus a couple of years before having him, and Jason evidently stumbled on it during his stint pulling eighty hours of work in any given seventy hour period. I guess he speaks some Turkish? He doesn't like to talk about being with Talia, so I don't push, but I'm pretty sure all he spoke before he uh, um, before, was English and enough Spanish to get by in most neighborhoods."

Granted, Hal has never been to Turkey, but he's had a few Turkish coffees here and there, and this one blows the rest of them out of the water. He takes a moment to savor the depth of it, the perfect balance of spices. "Well, thanks, now I'm gonna have to come to this shithole of a city every time I want one of these."

Dick laughs, but it quiets quickly. He says, "Look, I try not to be the Dom who talks to subs to get insight into other subs, because I actually know that a person's dynamic doesn't define how they think or act."

Hal had been pretty sure when Dick had texted asking to have a chat with him, it was going to be about Jason. It's not that Dick and he don't spend time together, but it's usually more as an element of superhero-ing, or in relation to Bruce. Hal would like to say he didn't sign up for this parenting stuff, but it'd be disingenuous at best. A total asswipe move, at worst. Bruce never hid the fact that the kids were an active, ever-present part of his life. So, yeah, Hal knew there'd be moments like this when he'd hitched his wagon onto the Wayne train. That said, "Well, and, assuming we're talking about Jason, which I'm assuming we are, there's…some pretty serious outliers in that situation."

Dick takes a sip. "That was unusually diplomatic, for you."

"Yep, working hard, here. Thanks for the appreciation."

It gets Dick's shoulders to relax an inch or so, which is all Hal was going for. Dick says, "I'm—he's—. Fuck, okay, I _want_ him. As a partner, a sub. A lover. I know, a lot of the time, with us, people in our line of—in our lifestyle, there's not exactly a rule book. But I feel like I'm completely outside the painted lines, here. He's…I mean, he's got trauma coming out his ears, until recently, I generally considered him a younger brother, because that was how Bruce framed it, and I never thought to argue or think otherwise and it didn't matter, because he was _dead_. Add to that my…tendency toward somewhat lax, service dominance, and I'm not even sure I should be—maybe I should just ignore what's going on in my head. If Bruce is anything to go by, another ten, twenty years of repression and I might not be happy, but I'll be able to control a city and a team of superheroes mostly just by standing still, wearing a cowl and a cape, and seeming really pissed off all the time."

Hal chokes a little on the sip he'd just taken. It's a pretty accurate assessment of Batman's leadership style, really. "So, there was a lot there."

"Yeah," Dick sighs. "Sorry."

Hal shakes his head. "I just, uh, full disclosure, I'm not a font of sub wisdom, or anything. Half the time I think Bruce and I work because he doesn't mind that I'm only particularly dynamic in bed, and then only when I feel like it."

Dick shrugs. "Babs says she thinks a lot of people are less dynamically oriented than they pretend to be, but so socialized to dynamics they don't bother to consider possible different reasons for their actions or desires."

Hal doesn't kid himself that he's even half as smart as Barbara. "Probably. In any case, I just mean, Jason's…Jason's the real deal, no question, and I can't exactly speak to that element of this whole clusterfuck."

"Sure," Dick says. "I more—really, I'm asking if you think I should even try. Or if I should take a League assignment somewhere off planet for a few years and forget I ever knew him."

"Well, those are two very opposite ends of the spectrum."

"I don't think there's a middle ground here for me."

"Got it," Hal says, because he does. He's been there before. And he actually did try running away to a few different planets before he realized it wasn't working. Bruce had been unimpressed, but then, Bruce is unimpressed by basically everything. 

"Do—do you think it's wrong, that I want what I want?"

Hal raises an eyebrow. "That you want a guy who looks like he could bench press you, model for some kind of biker genre magazine, reads books like the world's gonna end tomorrow, and makes a killer banana pudding?"

"Who's supposed to be my little brother."

"Dick, Jesus, I love your dad, I do, and I don't doubt for a second that he sees each and every one of you as his kids. I think even Steph and Babs, who might not agree so much. But you were eighteen when Jason arrived on the scene, and not living at home. Even if you guys _were_ genetically related, you'd probably understand him in a different light than your basic kid brother. As it is, he was twelve when he came into your life, and I think there's a solid argument he's not exactly the kid any of us knew before the Joker and Talia and just…no. I don't think you're some kind of pedo incest monger, if that’s what you’re asking. I think you've just re-met a guy you knew when he was younger and he's less the all-American-kid neighbor now, and more the Bad-Boy-with-a-Heart-of-Gold you'd like to bone. Which is completely healthy."

"I want to do more than just bone him."

"I know, because you're a gentleman, despite being raised in part by Bruce."

Dick laughs at that, and Hal cracks a smile. When he manages, Dick says, "But seriously, I've got no idea what I'm doing here."

"I hate to burst your bubble, kid, but nobody has any idea what they're doing when it comes to liking someone else and wanting that someone else to like them."

Dick makes a sound of frustration deep in his throat. "I just want to take him to a circus and buy him popcorn and win him a stupid stuffed animal and give him everything he never had as a kid and make him smile for the rest of his life."

Hal reaches over to ruffle Dick's hair. He can't help himself. He's still not sure how Dick exists. And he knows every one of Dick's faults. Dick sucks at mornings, he can't cook anything beyond toast, eggs, and macaroni from a box, he gets angry with Bruce for breathing at times, and he forgets that not everyone has either his skills or his patience. He's three hundred percent human, Hal knows that. He's still a fucking miracle. Hal knows that, too. 

Dick glares at him, but it's half-hearted. Hal says, "Thing is, that sounds like a pretty solid plan. I mean, I'd start small, with the circus and the popcorn and the stuffed animal. But, uh, c'mon, you know as well as I do, subs are people just like anyone else. At the end of the day, I'd wager most of us just want someone to treat us that way."

"I don't want to fuck up," Dick says quietly.

Hal grimaces. "You will. You know that. But so will he. And if it's right, it won't matter, you'll find a way to move past it."

Dick slumps a little. "I thought things were supposed to make more sense as an adult."

Hal snorts. "If there is one thing I have found to be true about adulthood, it's this: sense, like everything else, gives way to entropy."

Dick looks over at him. "Great. Good talk."

Hal grins. "Dunno what you're talking about, I got this awesome coffee out of it."

*

Tim breaks after three days of Jason actively avoiding everyone. Jason's even patrolling by himself, which, sure, it's not that none of them do it, they _all_ do it at times, but usually because of logistical reasons. Jason, he's pretty sure, just doesn't want to talk to them. It's making Damian mopey.

Tim lays his trap carefully, and although Jason hides it well, Tim catches the flicker of surprise on his face when he finds himself cornered in the ballroom he's been using as an alternate to the gym. It takes all of about two seconds for surprise to melt into well-controlled panic. "Damian?"

Tim shakes his head and tosses Jason a plastic baggie of Alfred's oatmeal butterscotch cookies. "Damian's fine. I mean, possibly being smothered by Goliath, but Titus'll probably dig him out before any brain damage can occur."

Jason cracks open the bag and takes a bite of one of the cookies. "Uh…thanks for the snack?"

"You're being weird." Tim tilts his head. "Weirder than usual and outside the bounds of normal weird for Bat-related persons."

"You flatterer, you," Jason deadpans.

"Okay, sure, but what gives?"

"Aren't you supposed to be the best of us at this detective-stuff?"

Tim weighs his options. "You want me to lay out my evidence? I mean, I don't think that's going to go the way you're hoping, but sure. First, Bruce meets with you over what I'm suspecting is the trail of half-filled out paperwork for legal name changes in adults. Second, Dick and you text a whole bunch for a while, which seems to ratchet up the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not unresolved emotional whatever the two of you have going on, then you stop answering his texts altogether, which is driving him batshit, pun really not intended. Third—"

"No, we're good," Jason says, raising a hand.

"Tie the pieces together for me, then. Inquiring minds have to know."

"By which you mean 'nosy ass fuckers' want to know."

"Look, consider yourself lucky. Another day of this and it probably would have been Alfred."

Jason blinks. "There's nothing _wrong._ "

"Then have dinner with us tonight instead of sneaking food right after the rest of us have left for patrol and before you put on your duds and head out."

Jason turns slightly away from Tim. His voice is quiet when he says, "Dick wants to go on a date."

Tim has mostly figured it was something like this. There were other possibilities, but this was the one that made the most sense when all the clues were assembled. "Do you want to go on a date with him?"

Jason pouts so fiercely at the floor, Tim's kind of surprised it doesn't burst into flames or cave in on itself. Jason has the really-extremely-disapproving facial expressions down pat. He definitely takes after Bruce the most in that department. Damian's an up-and-coming talent, Tim can tell, but for now, it's all Jason. 

Eventually, Jason shrugs. "How do you know if you wanna go on a date with someone? How do you know if you want to go on a date with Dick Grayson?"

Tim actually gets that those are two different questions. He sighs and takes a seat in the middle of the ballroom, tucking his legs into a pretzel. Jason looks at him for a moment like he's not really seeing anything, and then follows suit. Tim says, "This isn't really my area of expertise."

Jason snorts. "Human relations is not precisely a strength in this crew. I've noticed."

Tim huffs, nodding. "There's this guy. One of the Titans. I think, maybe, I'd like to go on a date with him. No, I know. I've known for a long time, it's just complicated. Team members, and all that."

"Why?" Jason growls a little. "I mean, not why is that complicated, why do you wanna go on a date with him?"

Tim looks a little sheepish. "Mostly that he can always get me to laugh. Even when I'm on the verge of a panic attack. It's not that he doesn't take things seriously, because he does. He just…knows me. Knows the right switch to flip. And I can imagine having that in my life more would make me, um, happier, I guess."

Jason glances down at the floor. One of his fingers is tracing lazy figure eights into the floor. "Dick's a mess."

"All of us are," Tim says. "Of us Bats, he's kinda the least messy, really. Except maybe Babs. She's stupidly well-adjusted given the givens."

"Yeah. That's…yeah. I just, fucksticks. He's—" Jason runs his hands through his hair in clear frustration.

"The Original," Tim finishes.

Jason looks up at him sharply. Tim says, "It's how we all see it. Even Babs, I think, has a little bit of that sense of awe, and Babs is older than him and isn't impressed by anything."

Jason sighs. "If I break him, Bruce'll kill me, second kid or no. Murder rule or no."

Tim rolls his eyes. "He's not a Ming vase, Jay. And you're not the bull in the china shop. Also, if he breaks you, Bruce will break him like a Barbie doll under a Mack truck's wheel. So the playing field is pretty even there."

After a long pause, Jason says, "You think I should say yes." 

Tim doesn't take it as a question. "I think…I think that you've been calmer since you started going out to the Haven weekly, that whatever it is between you two, you want to, and that you haven't done nearly enough of what you’ve wanted. Ever."

"There are good reasons for that."

Tim nods. "I know. And maybe there are in this instance, too. But you're a Robin, Jay. Take the damn leap."

Jason curls up his lip. "Calling me a coward?"

"You're the only one in the room using that word."

Listlessly, Jason tells him, "Hate you."

"Sure," Tim agrees.

*

When Jason accedes to going on a date with Dick, even though he really should expect it, he’s still surprised when Dick jumps right in with both feet. Dick hums happily for a quick moment before saying, "Great, have time Thursday early evening?"

Jason knows Dick often works early morning shifts into mid-afternoon, pretty much just changing from Nightwing's unitard into his uniform and grabbing coffee in between. What he's not entirely certain of is when the hell Dick sleeps. He doesn’t think this is the time to ask, though, so he says, "Sure."

"Pick you up at six-thirty."

Thursday morning, Damian has to excavate Jason from where he has buried himself under the covers. He says, in his most authoritarian tone, "We have katas to do, Jason Peter Todd."

"Wayne," Jason says, because they signed the papers over a week ago, and maybe it's weird, but that's his name.

Damian opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. After a second, he falls back onto the bed, bouncing a bit. That gets Jason to sit up. "Damian?"

Damian bites his lower lip and doesn't say anything. Jason says, "I—I guess I thought you wouldn't mind being my brother."

Damian's eyes fly up to Jason's face at that and he snarls. "You were my brother before."

"Okay." Jason doesn't miss the way something settles in his stomach at the fierceness of that statement. "I don't—"

"Do you think Father wishes he didn't have to take me in?"

" _What?_ " 

Damian gives a half shrug. "Richard, you, Timothy, Cassandra. You were all his choice."

"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, Damian. No, I don't—Bruce chose us because we fell into his path and Bruce was the loneliest hermit in all of hermitville. If Dick and Tim are to be believed, Tim pretty much kept putting himself in Bruce's way until Bruce had no choice but to accept that he'd adopted a new kid. Bruce—he never thought having a kid was in the cards. And when you're not looking, sometimes he watches you like he's scared if he takes his eyes off you for one second you'll disappear into thin air."

Damian tucks his knees under his chin. "He does not make use of me. Grandfather would brag of his plans for me. Mother, she said I would be her crowning achievement. But she sent me away, and Father does not even allow me to patrol with him."

Jason gets it, is the worst part. He wonders if this is how Bruce felt every time Jason had propositioned him in those first six months. Quietly, he says, "You're _six_ , Dami. Nobody _should_ have plans for you, or be using you to their own ends. Bruce—Bruce wants to give you space to decide what _your_ plans are. For you. It's a sign of how hard he's trying to be a good dad for you."

"But what if I can't be a kid? What if…what if he wishes I were like the others in my class? They smile more and say I speak oddly and—"

"D, seriously, have you _met_ Tim? Trust me, that kid doesn't sound like anyone his age. You don't have to be anyone but you. Not for anyone, not even Bruce. I promise." Damian mulls this over for several moments. He doesn't look entirely convinced when he nods, but he also doesn't look like he's holding back tears any more. Jason will take victory where he can get it. "You said something about katas?"

It gets Damian to perk up, and Jason pulls a pair of sweats on over his boxers and follows Damian outside to get the day started.

*

Dick shows up on time and has cleaned his car. He's also in jeans that hug his ass like they were tailored for him and a v-neck shirt that makes Jason want to lick his collarbone. Jason pushes the surge of interest aside, snorts and says, "I can't tell you how far the gentleman routine's gonna get you, nobody's ever gone with that approach."

Dick opens his mouth, but then obviously decides ignoring Jason is the better part of getting away from the Manor with both of them still agreeing to go on this date. Instead he says, "I got cinnamon and white chocolate popcorn. Okay with a drive? There's an honest-to-goodness drive-in theater that's doing a double feature of Hairspray and Cry-Baby."

After a moment, Jason says quietly, "So, uh, you're kinda going all out here."

Dick's hands tighten where they're gripping the steering wheel. All he says is, "Yeah."

Jason's skin prickles. It wasn't that he'd thought Dick wouldn't plan something, he just figured it'd be something simple. A diner and a walk. A picnic and a rented movie. 

In the silence, Dick asks, "Jay?"

_I don't know how to do this._ Jason bites down on those words and instead nods. "Drive is fine. Good. Yeah, that all sounds good."

"Great," Dick starts the car. "There's a stupidly delicious burger shack along 29 on the way out there. You can pick from eight fry seasonings."

"That's too many options."

"Yeah, I know, I always get like five. There's two of us, so we can just do all eight and see what happens."

"Living dangerously," Jason quips. "They have milkshakes?"

"Yes, but they're a little more traditional in that sphere: chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry."

Jason would never admit this aloud, but he finds that charming, reassuring in a strange way. "Which one is the best?"

"For my money, vanilla." There's a second of silence, and then Dick catches what he's said and laughs, making it easy for Jason to laugh as well.

"Strawberry it is," Jason says.

"Yeah, yeah, you know we're ordering all three of those, too."

Jason glances over. "You have a feeding kink."

Dick shakes his head. "No. I mean, yes. But it's—the feeding element is a symptom of the disease, and all that."

"The disease," Jason says flatly.

Dick keeps his eyes on the road, but makes a face. "Babs calls it being a service Dom."

Babs is pretty smart, but if Dick is making the point that those are her words, it's probably worth figuring out what Dick's are. "And you?"

"Dunno, really. I just get my kicks from taking care of others. For a long time I thought I'd somehow been mis-assigned in terms of dynamics, since all the stuff I liked was stuff people associated with subs. But Diana says she's known other D-types like me amongst her people, and Dinah says there's nothing odd about dynamics being expressed in a plethora of ways, and also I tried subbing a few times and it, uh. Didn't go well."

Jason draws in a sharp breath and Dick goes, "Oh, no, nothing like that. Just, y'know, it was clear I was going through the motions. I was _enjoying_ the motions, but I kind of hated that it felt like I was doing them because I was being told to. I don't want to take care of someone because it's what I'm supposed to be doing, I want to do it because…I want to."

Jason can't help his bark of laughter at that. "Yeah, that's pretty D-type."

"Right?" The amusement in Dick's voice is warm, and it curls around Jason like an arm thrown over his shoulders, almost too comfortable.

"Well, I guess I can drink a couple of milkshakes, if it'll make you feel better and all that."

Dick's, "You're a good boy that way," is half joke and half…not. Jason feels every molecule of that serious half to his fucking toes. He's pretty sure Dick notices, but Dick doesn't smirk or do anything other than quirk his lips in a soft smile and ask, "Have a music preference?"

*

They sit on the hood of the car for both movies. Somewhere halfway through the first, Dick takes Jason's hand loosely in his own. When Jason doesn't pull away or protest, Dick sandwiches it between both his hands and bounces happily for a beat or two. Jason rolls his eyes and does not feel charmed by the egregious dorkball next to him. No, he doesn’t.

They sit through the whole of the credits for the second movie, even as the other cars turn their lights on and line up to get out of the lot. The sound is terrible over the crackling speakers, and it's deep enough into the night that a slight chill has settled in the air, but Jason doesn't want to move. He doesn't want the simplicity of the two of them sitting outside, not having to figure anything out for a few hours, to go away. Dick doesn't seem any more inclined to go anywhere, so it's not until the screen goes entirely dark that they look at each other, and Dick makes a face, tilting his head toward the inside of the car.

Jason forces his fingers to loosen, so he can pull back and hop off the hood. He gets in the car and buckles his seat belt. Dick starts the ignition and gets them to the main road, nothing but Jason's choice of radio channel humming between them. They're probably halfway back when Jason says, "I—thanks. This was good."

Amazing artwork by [@ShaniGrim](https://twitter.com/shanigrim?lang=en)

"It was," Dick agrees, but not smugly, just happily. "Is there something you'd like to do next time?"

Jason is taking a minute to think about the question when Dick says, "I mean, um. Assuming that there's a next time. There's a next time, right?"

In theory, Jason has always wanted to be a Dom, or, at the very least, a dual dynamic, to have a sense of what it means to have power over someone else. And yet, here he is, and there's no doubt in his mind that he has a considerable breadth of power to, at the very least, hurt Dick's pride. Maybe to actually hurt his feelings. And there's nothing in Jason that gets a rush out of that. "Yeah. Yeah, there's a next time."

Jason's unwillingly somewhat charmed by the way Dick keeps looking directly out the windshield, as if that will somehow make it less obvious the guy is grinning like a complete idiot. "Good, okay, I mean—I didn't mean you had to tell me right now. About next time. Whatever works for you, really."

It's as much a test of whether Dick is actually letting Jason make the plans for their follow-up as it is an actual request when Jason tells him, "I go make and serve food once a month at the food kitchen two blocks over from where I grew up. You should come help and take me out to dinner afterward."

"The one in the Methodist Church basement?" Dick asks, not missing a beat. "Sounds good. When were you thinking?"

Jason digs his fingernails into the skin of his palm, but he doesn't wake up. "I like Monday nights. They have trouble getting volunteers then."

"This Monday night?"

Jason takes what feels like a quick second to revel in Dick's obvious interest. It's heady, and not even because of the power it imbues him with. Because he feels seen, _desired_ , and Jason hadn't known that was a thing that matters to him, but oh, as it turns out, it is. 

Clearly, he revels a little too long, because Dick asks, "Is that too soon? Babs tells me I come on strong sometimes."

Jason has to swallow a laugh imagining that conversation. "Guess it's a good thing I'm easy, then. This Monday's good."

"Easy? You think you're _easy_?" Dick sounds like he's bordering on outrage. 

Jason opens his mouth and then Dick says, "Oh wait. You were making a terrible joke about your past, weren't you?"

And now that Dick's actually phrased it that way, Jason can see how it is a pretty terrible joke. "Yeah, but, um. You have a point, I've been kind of a pain in the ass, huh?"

Dick snorts. "I like a challenge."

Jason smirks. "Don't tempt me, Grayson."

They squabble a little bit more, and before Jason realizes how long it's been, they're pulling up in front of the Manor. Dick says, "I'm staying the night, which sort of sucks, because now I don't have any excuse to kiss you goodnight."

"Worse," Jason laments, "I can't lie and say my dad has a shotgun."

Dick laughs. "I'd—I'd like to kiss you. Excuse or no."

Jason's heart picks up and he can't tell if it's from anticipation or terror. He says, "Stay where you are."

Dick nods and Jason leans over the center console to press his lips to Dick's. They're soft, and Dick doesn't even lean in, just lets Jason take the wheel, as it were. Jason brings his hand to Dick's cheek, and nips at his lower lip, whispers, "Open," and Dick lets him in. Jason doesn't deepen the kiss much, but enough that their tongues brush. Jason's heart quickens again, and this time he has no doubt why. Wanting to linger with that thrill, not to push and have it disappear, he pulls back and says, "Night, Dick."

Dick blinks and a few completely incomprehensible syllables fall from his mouth. Jason laughs, lets himself out of the car, and goes to his room without looking back.

*

Jason ends up designing a uniform largely to keep his mind off whether he's going to be accepted to any of the schools he really wants. He knows it doesn't really matter, one way or another he'll go to school, it doesn't have to be his first, second, or even sixth choice. And yet, for whatever reason, he can't stop thinking about it. He begins a campaign of self-distraction as a survival method.

It's not intentional, he's not actively thinking about the blue of Nightwing's outfit, or the way Bruce once called him "Jay-bird," when he thought Jason was asleep. He’s not thinking about anything, really, other than pure aesthetics, but when he's finished with the basic mockup, there's the blend of silver, black, white, and blue that denotes the Blue Jay. It's a deep silver, almost gray, that makes up most of the body, with black lines creating an impression of motion in the material, and rarer white and blue striations for a bit of texture and depth. Jason hadn't noticed while sketching, but the way the highlighted colors come together, it gives the impression that wings could pop out from his back.

_Little Wing._ Jason shakes the sound of Dick's voice, unbearably affectionate, from his mind.

He shows it to Damian first, because Damian's face will show if he thinks it's stupid. And because Damian's unlikely to lose all his respect for Jason in one fell swoop. 

He finds Damian playing soccer by himself in the back, and joins in. Damian seriously needs some human friends. Tim's with the Titans currently, and even when he's not, he's ten years older than Damian. Jason needs to talk to Bruce about basically everything regarding Damian, he knows this, he just doesn't want to.

When they've called a tie and are lying on the ground, Titus between them, Goliath still bounding around, and Alfred 2.0 cleaning his paws and looking at all of them scornfully, Jason says, "I wanted you to see something."

Damian sits up with alacrity. "Oh?"

Jason goes to the bench where he tucked the papers under a rock. Damian follows, and they sit next to each other, Jason handing them over. Damian peers at them, turning the paper this way and that, and says, "It needs a symbol."

"Got any ideas?"

"You have the pencils?" 

Jason hands the box to him. Damian takes out the black, blue, and white and sketches for a few moments, bringing the barest hint of the wing-like pattern that graces the back onto the front. "This," he says, holding it out to Jason.

Jason knocks his shoulder into Damian's and nods. "Definitely this."


	8. As Frightened as You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comic book type stuff happens. Some Super-family peeps come around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's art in this one, too! This precious piece is by [@vibiana](http://vibiana.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Sorry this is so late, tomorrow probably is going to be, too, because life.

Hal gets the news at work. Like, in the middle of an actual flight. Because when it comes to the League, Superman doesn't fuck around. Hal has no doubt that if he hadn’t been able to reach the plane comms from the Tower he would have just flown down, gotten in front of the damn plane, and delivered the news personally. Instead, his voice comes over the comms, which, thankfully, are secured, and says, "Hal, you've got to get to the Tower. There's been an Incident."

Hal can hear the damn capitalization. He says, "Let me land the plane," and then dials into Carol and starts apologizing. She's understandably exasperated, but also, has worked with Hal for a long time, so not unused to this. Hal's on the Tower within half an hour of Superman's call. He doesn't panic until he zetas up and Barry's standing there waiting for him, looking too-calm. 

"What happened?" Hal asks.

"Nightwing and Supergirl went into Bialya over a border-crossing situation. It was actually supposed to be pretty in-and-out. Nightwing volunteered because Green Arrow was dealing with a problem on his home turf, Zatanna and Canary have been holding down the peace talks between magician guilds, and Batman and Superman were dealing with an ally of Apokolips having broken a treaty with one of our allies."

Hal frowns. He knew about some of this. "Why wasn't I read into most of this?"

"Because you'd just gotten back from Sector 869 and the clusterfuck there, and Bruce said Carol was probably going to fire you if you didn't show up for a few days of work."

Not untrue, although he definitely hadn't mentioned anything about that to Bruce. "It's not like I'd end up on the streets. If the League needs me—"

"Okay, but we didn't think we did."

"Bruce is—"

"They took Nightwing and Supergirl hostage."

Hal blinks. "How'd they get the kryptonite?"

"Yeah, that's a whole long story, and it gets worse and there's gonna be a lot of clean up, to say the least, but for the moment, let's focus on the fact that Nightwing is patched and sleeping off some serious torture and Leslie's currently stuffing most of Bruce's insides back where they're supposed to be."

Hal's already walking toward the medwing, even as he listens to Barry explain what sense they've made of the debacle. He swallows back his bile and terror the way he's taught himself to every time Bruce gets in over his head, finds the limits of his all-too-human abilities. This is part of their relationship. He hates it, but changing it would mean changing Bruce, and Hal has no interest in that. On his way to the surgical suite he finds Kon holding on to Tim in the sitting area outside the overview for the med wing. Hal stops and squats down in front of Tim. "Hey."

Tim swallows. "I was with the Titans, we didn't even—"

"Whoa, Tim." Hal shakes his head. "I just want to know if you know where Jay, Cass, and Damian are."

Tim's eyes go even wider. "At the Manor, probably? I didn't even call Alfred."

"I'm betting the Batcomputers have already told Alfred, and probably Babs. I want you to call down, though, make sure they know Dick's gonna be fine, and that Leslie is working on Bruce and I'll give them all an update as soon as I can."

"Okay, yeah, I—"

Kon squeezes Tim more tightly into his side and says, "We'll take care of things. Go."

Hal claps Kon on the shoulder and then heads into the viewing room. Bruce is—Hal takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth. Then again. It takes seven or eight repetitions to get his heart rate down to where he's not mildly dizzy and about to throw up all over himself. "That's…that's a lot of blood."

"Yeah, evidently kryptonite isn't the only extra-terrestrial weapon Bialya should in no way have that they've nonetheless gotten their hands on."

"Was he alone? Why was he—"

Barry cuts him off with, "He got the distress signal from Nightwing. You know how he is with the kids. Supes stayed because they were in the middle of finishing out negotiations and leaving at that moment probably would have undone everything they'd accomplished. If I had to guess, I'd bet B even convinced him that was the right move and that he could handle extracting Nightwing himself. Which, if it hadn't been for the lack of intel on the weaponry, might have been the case. I know Diana came slightly later and helped all of them out of there. She might be the reason everyone is still alive. It's unclear."

"Where is she? Diana?"

"With Supergirl, keeping an eye on Dick. They didn't just have green kryptonite. They had red. They used some unholy melding of the two and sicced Kara on Dick. She's not holding up so well."

"Jesus Christ on a sit-and-spin," Hal mutters.

Barry says, "Understatement." Then, "I'm gonna go get you some coffee, and check in on the others, make sure the guys still out in the field aren’t trying to raise a flag. I'll be back, okay?"

"Yeah," Hal tells him, not taking his eyes off the mass of bones and organs and blood that is his life partner below.

*

Cass takes the news from Alfred silently, the way she takes pretty much everything. Damian is equally stoic, his jaw squaring in a way no six year old's should. Jason focuses on them. It's the only way to keep breathing. One thing is certain: having a couple of Doms or duals who are willing to put the three of them in subspace is a very good idea at the moment, at least until there's some news.

Thankfully, Cass will let Brown engage her dynamic, so he looks at Cass and says, "Call Steph. Tell her what's going on."

Brown will take the hint. Cass has already taken the hint, and Jason watches her, waiting to see if she expresses a preference for staying clear-headed. She doesn't, which is a relief. Jason doesn't doubt she could tough it out, he just doesn't want to have to see that. 

Damian's a bigger conundrum. Jason's not going to ask Tim to leave the Tower, even though he thinks Tim would if he admitted they needed him to. Off the top of his head, Jason can think of three people Damian would respond decently or well to in a dynamic sense, and they are Bruce, Dick, and Tim.

Cass says, like the mind-reading savant she is, "Billy. Shazam."

Jason nods. It's as good a solution as any. Who knows if Damian will be more willing to trust an adult who shares a body with a child, but they haven't got a ton of room to maneuver here. Alfred says, "I shall see if Oracle can locate Mr. Batson," and turns toward the computers.

Jason understands, logically, that Babs probably has to be the one to negotiate this. He has no idea how to find Shazam, nor does he have any clue how much the guy does or doesn't know about the Batfamily, along with a number of other issues. It leaves him somewhat at ends, though.

He starts a game of checkers with Damian just to give him something to concentrate on. Anything.

Babs works fast, because Shazam is there within the hour. And he's brought Lois. Jason's still blinking at her, windblown, ever-solid on her feet, as fierce looking as he remembers, when Shazam switches back to Billy. Damian startles. Well, not visibly, but Jason has learned to read the signs.

Jason looks over at Damian and says, "I trust him to be responsible with you."

Billy switches back, likely because at barely twelve, most Doms haven't much practice or confidence, and in his adult guise, he at least has the Wisdom of Solomon to lean on. Shazam says, "We don't have to go anywhere. Can I play with your dog, though?"

It's a good tactic. Jason doubts Shazam's being particularly insightful, he's just being himself, but it gets Damian to engage. Jason stands and crosses to where Lois is standing. Close up, he can see she's a bit older than he remembers. There are more laugh lines around her mouth, a few sparkling strands of silver threaded in her black hair. Jason likes the way she wears it. Softly, she says, "When Clark told me, I didn't believe it. I thought…I thought if I came to see for myself, the fantasy would fall apart."

Jason's seen the same sentiment in Superman's eyes, Wonder Woman's, a few of the others. But none of them are this woman, who has spent her life fighting giants with only a pen and the power of her own convictions. He says, "Thought you were braver than that."

"A child's death makes cowards of us all, Jason." 

Jason sucks in a breath at that. "Thanks for coming, then, I guess."

She reaches out and pulls him into a hug. He could easily resist if he wanted to, but he does not. She says, "C'mon. Let's see if we can give you some peace for a few hours, yeah?"

It feels like betrayal, of Dick, of Bruce, maybe even of Hal, but he desperately wants that. He says, "Yeah."

*

Tim's sitting by Dick when the latter wakes up, winces with pain and blinks, clearly trying to orient himself. Tim grabs the cup of water by the bed and puts the straw to Dick's lips. Dick says, "Thanks."

Once hydrated, Dick looks down at himself. Tim waits. Sure enough, Dick says, "Okay, catch me up."

"Bruce just came out of surgery. Hal says Leslie thinks there'll be a full recovery, but it's going to take some time. Hal's with him. Kon checked, and Jessica and Simon paid Bialya a visit afterward, so they've been divested at least of the weapons we know about. Kara's shaken but okay, she's with Alex at home. Babs says that Steph, Shazam, and Lois are at the manor, so I'm guessing Alfred made the call that a little downtime was best for everyone."

Dick brings a hand up and rubs at his face. It's not the best idea: he's pretty bruised up in the cheek area, probably the result of repeated backhands. Both wrists are heavily bandaged over quite a bit of stitchwork. Whatever had been holding Dick upright had cut nearly to the bone. Three of his ribs and his collarbone are broken, he has extensive bruising in his groin, torso, and back, there are electricity burns on the soles of his feet, his inner thighs, stomach, and lower back. 

Dick doesn't seem to notice. He says, "Tim, I need to go home."

Tim has foreseen this, and honestly, from here on out, Alfred is perfectly capable of taking care of Dick. It's certainly nothing he hasn't handled before. "Yeah, Kon said he'd help. Gimme a sec."

Tim peeks his head out the door, and sure enough, Kon is heading their way. Tim knows he tries not to eavesdrop, but it's got to be hard to ignore hearing your own name. Kon says, "Hey, time to get out of here?"

"Yeah. Leslie said no walking on his feet for at least three days, though."

Kon says, "And everyone knows you Bats always listen to doctor's orders."

"Mostly when one of us is guilting another into it." Tim slips back into the room, Kon behind him. Truth is, if any of the family is out in the field, Dick won't stop going, fighting, pushing himself until every last one of them is back safe. Assuming he doesn't need to take care of anyone, Dick is actually decent at being a patient. Tim assumes this is because it makes Alfred and Leslie happy, and if there's one thing Dick likes, it's making other people happy.

"Hey Connor," Dick says, his eyes already falling shut again.

Kon says, "Gonna lift you up and shield you through the zeta tubes. You good?"

"I'd prefer no pictures, but otherwise, yeah, bridal carry away."

"Right, but Tim loves taking pictures, didn't you know?" Kon is impossibly careful getting Dick up, but Dick's hiss of pain is loud enough for Tim to hear.

In order not to call too much attention to it, Tim half-heartedly responds, "Shockingly, I have moments of self-control."

Tim walks beside them, but has them go through the tube first, entering the access code for the tube straight to the cave. He follows seconds later. Dick, unsurprisingly, is dry heaving. Kon's managed to get him on his knees. Tim goes and grabs a bottle of water and brings it back, along with a kidney dish from the medical area of the cave. It takes a few minutes for the worst of the heaving to pass. 

Softly Tim asks, "Your room, or somewhere else?"

Tim knows he's not the only one who sometimes crawls into Bruce's and Hal's bed when recovering. Dick shakes his head. "The library."

"You need a bed," Tim tells him. "If you want me to find Jason for you, I will, but we're putting you in a bed."

"I don’t like you," Dick grumbles.

"Take it up with someone who cares." Tim waits.

"Find Jason."

"Dick—"

"Find. Jason. I wanna go to his room, but not without his permission."

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, okay, just—don't move. Kon likes me more, he'll definitely side with me if you try."

Dick makes a shooing motion, sinking further back onto his heels. Tim meets Kon's gaze. Kon nods. Tim owes him…a lot. Problem for another day.

*

Tim finds Jason in the kitchen, along with Lois, Alfred, Cass, Steph, Damian, and Billy. The last two are curled up in the bay window seat, sleeping. Cass is perched on Steph's lap. Alfred, Lois, and Jason all have their own seats.

Tim opens his mouth to say that Dick is home and instead finds himself asking, "Is that tomato soup?"

They all have steaming bowls in front of them, and the smell of tomatoes is rolling through the kitchen. Tim's stomach growls. Evidently, he's pretty hungry. It makes sense. He can't remember when it was he last ate, just that, at some point, Kon got him a sandwich and then sat and watched him until he actually ate it.

"Sit down, Master Timothy," Alfred says, rising. "And give us a report on Masters Bruce and Richard, if you would."

Tim could argue about getting the soup himself, but he'd lose, so he does as told and sits down. Then he says, "Dick's home. Kon helped me take him through the tubes. They're in the cave. Dick wanted to know if he could sleep in your room, Jason."

Jason stands, putting a hand to Lois' shoulder and mouthing, "thanks." He looks over at Tim, prompting. "Bruce?"

"Right." Tim's brain feels like a television with crappy reception. "Out of surgery, recovering. Hal's with him." He considers laying his head on the table and falling asleep. He might have actually done it if Alfred hadn't chosen that moment to slide a bowl with a spoon tucked into it in front of him.

Jason nods, and leaves the kitchen. Cass kisses Steph's cheek, walks over to the window seat, somehow manages to tuck herself in between the window and Damian— _without_ waking Damian—and goes to sleep. Steph nods. "I'm gonna go call Babs."

"Yeah," Tim agrees, even though Babs is probably monitoring the Tower and already knows. He puts a spoonful of soup in his mouth, and then another. The soup is too good to pass out in, thankfully, but it's a close thing.

*

Jason pauses at the entrance to the cave. Dick looks—well, Dick looks like someone who was tortured. Jason knows he loses several seconds to pure rage, to the desire to hunt down everyone who even contributed to Dick being hurt. The world takes on a greenish-red haze. Jason puts a hand to a wall of the cave, feeling the cold of the stone underneath his skin, and closes his eyes. There's still green behind his lids, but it allows him to focus on the smell of the underground, the stillness of the air in the cave, the soft rustle of the bats.

When he's got himself back under control, he takes a breath and walks to where Dick is sitting on the floor, curled against a kid in a red and black shirt with Superman's symbol on it. Jason folds to his knees in front of Dick and says, "You look horrible."

Dick huffs at that, wincing at the end. Broken ribs, Jason guesses, from the sound of his breathing. Dick reaches a hand up, and Jason does his best not to stare at the extensive bandaging on his wrist. Touching his fingers to Jason's cheek, Dick says, "Can you be closer now? Please?"

Jason puts a hand over Dick's fingers and looks behind him at the Super, who's probably the Titan's Superboy. Jason doesn't know him, but he's heard Tim talk about him. A lot. He says, "I've got him."

The Super nods and says, "I'm gonna go find Tim," to Dick.

Jason says, "In the kitchen, when I left."

Jason takes hold of Dick, who starts to list when left to his own devices. "Hey, hey."

Dick shivers in his grasp. Jason isn't sure if it's from the chill in the cave or from pain, but either way, he knows he doesn't like it. Dick asks, "Can I stay in your room? Or will you stay with me in mine? I'm sorry, I just don't want to be alone."

Jason cautiously rubs a hand along Dick's spine. "Can you make it up to my room?"

"Not allowed to walk. We can—"

Jason stands, making a calming noise when Dick's breath catches. He leans over and carefully gets Dick positioned in his arms. Dick rests his head against Jason's chest and asks, "Have I mentioned how hot it is that you're like half again as big as me?"

"Size queen, huh, Grayson?"

"Not ashamed," Dick mumbles. "You're supernova hot."

Jason blinks at that. It's not that he didn't think Dick found him attractive. But that's—Jason's basically an ape of a sub. He knows, he's been told plenty. Subs are meant to be fluid, graceful in looks and submission. And even if that weren't true, Dick is objectively akin to a Greek god. Jason finally manages a, "You're not so bad yourself, Grayson."

"Mm," Dick says. Then, "I—you know you don't have to stay? Alfred will stay with me. Or Tim."

Anybody in the house would stay with Dick, and quite a few people not in the house, but, "Nope, you're stuck with me. You asked for me first."

"Wanted you," Dick says, almost too quietly for Jason to hear, but not quite.

They reach the room, and Jason manages to get the door open with only minor jostling of Dick, who swallows his whimpers. Jason sets him gently on the bed, and then works to get him under the covers, crawling in with Dick when he's managed. "You need anything? Water? Meds?"

Dick curls his hands around Jason's wrists and squeezes. "Stay."

It's not really an order, but it thrums through Jason like one. He can't help saying, "Yes sir," low and happy.

Dick says, "Jay, I didn't—"

Jason meets his gaze and cuts him off. "You taking it back?"

It's a challenge. Dick looks at him for a long time and Jason makes himself not look away. Eventually, Dick executes the tiniest shake of his head. "No. No, I'm not."

Jason moves closer, touching his forehead to Dick's. They fall asleep that way, breathing in time.

Art by [vibiana](http://vibiana.tumblr.com/)

*

Jason's reading when Dick wakes up, sitting against the headboard, Dick's head having found its way to Jason's thigh. Dick murmurs, "Lil’ Wing?"

"I gotcha," Jason says, setting the book aside. 

"Can I—I wanna ask you something, but I want you to say no if you even have any doubts."

Jason runs his hand through Dick's hair, enjoying the gasp of pleasure it gets him. "Okay. I'll do my best."

Dick says, "I know Lois just helped you down, and you don't need a session, but I'd like to have one. I'd like you to let me Dom you." Dick swallows. "Last time we did it, I felt like I could sleep better, think more clearly, like things were just _easier_ for days afterward, which I didn't even know was a thing. I mean, technically, yes, I knew that was what a Dom's brain chemicals should do after a session, but it was a theoretical knowledge. I don't—if it wasn't good for you, or if doing it again right now would be bad in some way, then that's not, that's…let's not do that then, but if it would be okay, I think it would— I'm a little unsettled, is all."

Jason looks down at Dick, at the way his eyes are closed, like he doesn't want to chance even seeing Jason react badly from the corner of his eyes. Unsettled is probably an understatement. Torture is a hazard of the job, just as death is, but that doesn't make any of them immune to its effects. Still, he believes Dick means it about him not wanting Jason to submit just to calm Dick, about him needing Jason to be as interested in scening as Dick himself is, or at least close. Jason sifts through what he wants, and the truth is, the idea of Dick taking him down because _Dick_ needs it, because they have the time, just because…Jason likes that.

Dick starts, "I said no doubts—"

"Hush, I'm not doubting, I'm thinking. And I'm thinking yes. Yes, I would like that."

"Oh," Dick says. "Oh."

Jason laughs softly. Dick makes a disgruntled noise. "Come on, I had reason to think that your significant pause was representative of concerns."

"We can't all leap before looking," Jason tells him.

"I'll catch you," Dick says, sounding painfully certain and committed to this promise.

Jason skritches at Dick's scalp. "Maybe. But I don't want to need to be caught."

Dick sighs. "But you'll let me for the next couple of hours or so, huh?"

Jason smiles. "I don't _need_ it right now. I want it."

Dick's quiet for a long moment before recognizing the distinction with a soft, "Yeah. Okay."

"No sex, though, okay?"

"Jay, even if I was physically up for that, which I am deeply, deeply not, you get to choose when we have sex. It's not some surprise I get to spring on you."

"I wasn't—"

"I know, I know that wasn't some kind of passive-aggressive warning. But you seem to think we can only have sex when we're scening, and that I get to make that decision unilaterally, and both of those assumptions are wrong. I would honestly prefer we weren't involved in a power exchange during our first time, but if you need that, then we can discuss."

Jason blinks down at Dick, running that declaration through his head. "I—I've never had that choice."

"Yeah." Dick sounds heartbroken. "Not anymore. Not again."

Jason swallows. "Okay. Right now, I want to be yours, right now."

Dick takes a slow breath. "Help me sit up, yeah?"

*

Dick says, "Go draw me a bath. You have permission to make a list of the things you need in order to properly clean me, rebandage and redress me, but you're to ask me before you go to get any of those things. Yes, sir?"

Jason swallows. "Yes, sir." He goes into the bathroom and runs the hot water for a bit, long enough that the stream turns warm, before plugging the tub and mixing in some cold water in order to keep the temperature warm, rather than boiling.

He goes to the bathroom door and asks, "May I go to the kitchen, sir? I need some plastic to wrap the bandages and I would like to make an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory soak."

"Be back in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," Jason says, calmed by the directness of the order, the limitation in it. He's not in subspace, not even close, actually. Weirdly, it's enjoyable not to be there or want to be there just yet: to serve simply because he wishes to serve.

He goes to the kitchen and finds it empty. Alfred being there would have been helpful, but at the same time, this feels better, more pure. Dick told him he can do this, and so he'll do it on his own. He juices two cucumbers and processes a few sprigs of sage into a paste, and some oatmeal nearly into dust. He combines all three with a cup of baking soda before grabbing one of the plastic wrap rolls and heading back up. He makes it with nearly a minute and a half to spare, and doesn't purr when Dick comments on his efficiency. It's close, though. 

He turns off the tap when the water is at a height where it will reach Dick's shoulders when he leans back. Jason pours the mixture into the water and swirls it until dissolved, the freshness of the ingredients giving off a calming smell.

Returning to the bedroom, he kneels at the side of the bed and asks, "Permission to help you to the bath, sir?"

"Permission granted," Dick tells him, and Jason stands. He's endlessly cautious about getting Dick into his arms and easing him onto the side of the tub.

"Permission to wrap the bandages that need it, and undo the ones that do not, sir."

"Proceed, gorgeous."

Jason misses a breath. The way Dick doles out the compliment is both effortless and pointed, like a reward. It sparks inside Jason, similar to the sensation of touching an ungrounded socket, and for a second he's suspended on the energy and then he sinks. Just a little. Enough that carefully tending, part by part by part, to Dick, lowering him into the tub and kneeling at its side, have him floating.

"It's unholy how perfect you are," Dick murmurs, his eyes heavy as they consider Jason for a moment before closing, relaxing into the water. 

Jason can believe him when in this headspace, can accept the praise. Dick lifts a hand up out of the water and sinks it into Jason's hair. Water runs down the back of his neck as he arches into the touch. Dick says, "So good for me."

"May I wash you sir, please?" Jason might be moaning, just a little.

"No genitals," Dick says. "Otherwise, yes."

Jason takes the cotton cloth he'd lain on the side of the bath and wets it, lathering in the aloe and oatmeal bar he uses for himself. He moves in gentle, ever-widening circles over the skin of Dick's shoulders, losing time and everything except the need to do his best, take care with the worst of the bruising, avoid the burns, make certain the plastic-wrapped areas stay dry.

Dick will murmur a direction or even a preference now and then, intersperse them with praise. Jason hums with the pleasure of it, ready to fly apart, and somehow more together than he's ever been. He asks for permission to dry Dick, to re-wrap Dick's ribs, to dress Dick. To this last, Dick says, "I want you to put me in something of yours. Something I'll wake surrounded by you in."

Jason does. He wants to kiss along the side of Dick's cheek, he wants to whisper, "Mine," in his ear.

Instead, he takes Dick back to bed when he's told to, he says, "Yes, sir," when Dick says, "I'm going to bring you back up now," even though he desperately wants to stay in this space where everything is easy and he is good, he is beautiful.

Dick says, "Tell me one thing you want right now."

Jason says, "For this to be good for you," because he's still himself, he still knows Dick isn't completely at ease with this.

Dick laughs. It's not mean, it's bright. Jason can't read it, any more than he can read Dick's, "We'll talk about that when you're on my level, babe. Tell me another."

Jason says, "To be wearing _your_ clothes."

And so on. Jason feeling himself taking an easy step out of the haze of complete subspace with each answer until he's leveled, if still more mellow than most drug-addicted sloths. He blinks and says, "Jesus fucking Christ."

"A-fucking-men," Dick returns.

Jason laughs, sharp and sudden and intense. Dick almost follows but then says, "Ow, ow, no fair," and Jason, who's allowed now—because he can do what he wants, thanks—leans over and kisses Dick's ribs better through Jason's "Reading is Sexy" shirt.

*

It takes about twenty minutes for Dick to start breathing a little less regularly. Jason notices because now he knows what to look for. He says, "Hey," and Dick says, "Sorry, just. I want to be taking care of you."

They've been talking casually about what they might want for dinner, if Dick can stay awake long enough to watch a movie, stupid, easy stuff. Jason's pretty sure Dick means "I _need_ to take care of you to stave off drop."

He thinks about how Bruce has handled him in the hours after a session, and about what he _wants_ from Dick that Dick might be physically capable of providing at the moment. Jason says, "I'm gonna go grab us a tray of food, and you're gonna feed us. And then I'm gonna take a quick shower and you're going to brush my hair and then let me be as close as we can make work without fucking your injuries up until we fall asleep."

Dick's breath is still shaky, but long and relieved. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Stay here," Jason says, and Dick snorts, flipping him off. Jason laughs.

This time, when he gets to the kitchen, Alfred is there cooking. Tim's doing homework at the breakfast nook. Jason asks, "Damian okay?"

Tim looks up. "Billy stayed and the two of them are playing with Damian's pets out back. How's Dick?"

"Still gimpy," Jason says.

Alfred, who's been looking at Jason an uncomfortably long time, asks, "Would you like some dinner, Master Jason?"

Jason says, "For two, please, Alfred. And I think we might have a rebellion on our hands if there isn't something for dessert as well."

"Indeed," Alfred says. 

Jason gets a tray, two glasses of water, napkins, and silverware while Alfred loads the plate up with garlicky mushroom-stuffed chicken, smashed new potatoes, and grilled asparagus. He says, "Best bring a couple of mugs of milk, as well," and places a bowl of chocolate-dipped peanut butter cookies to the side.

Quietly, Jason says, "You're the best, Alf."

"Quite," Alfred says.

Jason grins and heads back to his room. When he gets there, Dick's got his eyes closed and he looks a bit queasy. He looks over at the sound of the door, and seems to unwind a bit. Jason sets the tray down on the night stand and gets in the bed, pressing his forehead to Dick's. "Hey there."

Dick laughs, thready but amused. "Evidently I get a little possessive after mindblowing scenes. Who knew?"

"Kiss me, Golden Boy."

"Jay, don't—"

"You gonna tell me I rocked your world and then not kiss me? Seriously?"

Dick laughs again. "Okay, but then we wait until I can kiss you the way I want."

"Sure," Jason agrees. He can always go back on his word.

The kiss is light, Dick licking into Jason's mouth just a bit, but mostly letting Jason do as he will. It's heady and sweet. Jason breaks it off before he can't remember why he should. "Feed me, yeah?"

Dick blinks several times, his eyes going dark. "Yeah."

Despite the fact that it's clearly aggravating both Dick's ribs and his wrists, Jason sits back and lets him cut the food, opens his mouth when Dick lifts the fork or the glass, takes what he's given and doesn't ask for more. He doesn't need to, Dick keeps checking to see where he's at. When they get to the cookies, Jason can't help but lick some of the chocolate off Dick's fingers, seeing as how he's being hand-fed bits. It's not a scene, and Jason's not down. All the same he feels…cherished. He swallows the word down with the milk, afraid to have it—and the feeling—snatched from him.

*

Nothing's that easy, Jason should damn well know that by now, but it's seemingly the one truth he can't keep properly lodged in his brain. He wakes later that night, screaming, "No!" repeatedly and holding Dick in a chokehold. He wakes because Tim is screaming his name and the Superkid is actively pulling him off Dick while trying to make sure Dick isn't further injured.

Jason goes limp the second he's awake, aware of what's happening, and it's easy, then, for the Super to pull him right off. He realizes he's breathing too quickly. He can't seem to slow down. Dick tries to say something, maybe Jason's name. All that comes out is a croak, and Jason snaps, running to the toilet just in time to be sick when he fully understands what’s going on.

He's well into dry-heaving when he realizes Tim has followed him, is rubbing small circles into his back and counting rhythmically to try and regulate Jason's breathing. There's green swimming in his vision and the hazy sense of a Dom trying to force him to bend and he throws Tim off, pressing himself in the corner between the toilet and the wall. It's a bad choice, but it at least means an attack has to come from the front.

"Jay," a voice says, a voice that's more soothing than Jason wants it to be.

He looks up and sees that the Super has brought Dick into the bathroom, is just standing in the doorway with Dick in a bridal hold. It should be fantastic, the kind of blackmail material Jason can hold onto with a chuckle forever. Instead, it feels threatening. Dick has the Super at his back, and Jason is hemmed in by a Dom and a Dual. 

Dick's neck is red, is going to bruise, and somehow that seems worse than any of the other injuries that are still healing. Jason closes his eyes, then opens them, when not being able to track just makes everything more terrifying.

"Kon," Dick says, "can you put me down? Tim, can you guys give us a moment?"

"You leave him here with me, Drake, and I will shoot you in the face the next time I see you."

Kon sets Dick on the floor even as he says, "I'm bulletproof."

"He can't hide behind you forever."

"Jason," Dick says, sharper this time. "Stop. You're in drop, everybody says shit they regret in drop."

"Oh fuck the fuck off, you condescending maggot-hole, this isn't drop. I know how drop feels." He also knows he doesn't generally get it so long as the Dom is careful and doesn't leave him alone afterward.

It's Tim who says, "Well, this isn't _you_ , either, so it's something."

The sentiment is shocking enough to Jason that it breaks through some of the adrenaline still pumping too heavily in his veins. "It's—" Jason takes a breath and the nightmare hums through him, his lungs feeling wet and full and like they had coming out of the Pit. "A little bit me."

"And a little bit?" Dick prompts.

"The Pit. A year of being drugged into submission because Talia wouldn't just fucking talk to me and tell me she wasn't training me to be some sort of mindless assassin-lackey, and another of having given up." His stomach threatens to come up as he says it, admits to how he'd finally given in, let Talia push him down even without the drugs that made it impossible to resist. She hadn't used Push, and—damn the Joker, damn himself, damn everything—he'd been _grateful._ But what she'd used had done the trick.

"Okay," Dick says, his voice even in a way Jason can tell is forced. But he needs the calm too much to suggest that Dick can let go.

"Okay," Dick repeats. "Kon, Tim—"

"Yeah," Tim says, and gets up, but before he leaves he crouches down in front of Jason, far enough that he's not crowding, close enough that it's hard not to look at him. "Jay, we're down the hall. You make a sound louder than your talking voice, Kon's got super speed."

"Tim." Dick says, sounding a little betrayed.

Jason nods. He doesn't thank Tim, he can't, not right now. But it's more calming than he wants it to be.

When the door to the outer room has clicked shut behind them, Jason says, "I could have killed you."

"No. I'm injured, so you got a little further than you would have otherwise. Trust me, if I hadn't known Kon would hear the struggle, I'd've been a little more aggressive about getting you off."

"When I'm in that space—"

"What space?"

Jason tucks his forehead against his knees.

"Jay, I swear, if I could get away with never making you talk about this, I would. In a heartbeat. But I have a sneaking suspicion that's not going to work out for us, and the bruising to back that up."

Jason rocks a little. "Just. I can't look at you while I talk about it. Can't have you looking at me."

Dick thinks that over. "Why don't you put me by the bed on one side? I'll sit with my back to it, you can sit with your back to the other side."

Jason considers this. "Yeah, okay, that'll work."

Dick sighs. "I'm going to need the services of Todd Chariot, Inc., again."

"Wayne."

"Hm?"

"Wayne Chariot, Inc. I took Bruce's name."

Dick blinks, but then smiles a little. "Right. That—Bruce told me that. It's kinda been a long day."

If Jason could force a smile at the obvious understatement, he would. But he's tired and shaken and he's still got a lot of talking to do, so he just stands and picks Dick up, heading into the bedroom.


	9. Let Me Be Used

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason talks about his past with Dick. Hal continues to step-parent.

They're a ways down the hall when Kon asks, "You okay?"

Tim says, "I don't think he'd actually shoot me in the face."

"Great to hear, but not what I was asking."

Tim knows, he'd just been hoping Kon would let him skirt the issue. He's thinking of what to say when Kon asks, "Where are we going?"

"I wanted to check on Damian," Tim says. There's no point. Alfred's at least the parent to them all that Bruce is, and probably double what Hal is, but both Hal and Bruce are gone, Jason's…out of the game for a bit, Dick's half bandage, and Tim needs to see that Damian is okay. Steph and Cass know that they can go to Alfred or get themselves a drink if they need. When Damian's worried or scared, though, he regresses to being unsure of how much leeway he has, defaults to being a perfect weapon, or, at best, obedient little soldier.

Kon, thankfully, doesn't mention he can hear Damian, should he cry out, or anything else that would make Tim feel more crazy than he already feels. Instead, Kon asks, "Does it bother you that I'm adynamic?"

It's such a non-sequitur that Tim stumbles over his own feet. He rights himself and asks, "Does it bother you that I'm dual?"

"Not the same. Duals are practically a quarter of the human population."

"You're not entirely human," Tim says.

"But I live amongst them. And adynamics are, at best, about five percent."

"I've never cared about anyone’s dynamic or lackthereof, and I'm not about to start with my best friend. Why, does it bother you?"

"A little."

This stops Tim. "Oh. What? Why?"

Kon shrugs. "It's something I can never give someone I…care about."

Tim knows he's not always the best at reading others. Paper trails, electronic trails, any kind of trail that doesn't necessarily involve expression and vocal inflection, he's your guy. But genius is often paired with low EQ, and while Tim thinks his is pretty decent, all things being equal, it's nothing on Dick's or Hal's or Alfred's. That said, while he's clearly missed some other clues, he's not missing this one. "Kon."

Kon shakes his head. "It's fine, I know I can't—that can't be how it is, but I—"

"Wow, okay, shut up," Tim says, and crowds into his space. "Hi," he mumbles, before he presses onto his tip toes and kisses Kon. It's unpracticed and probably a little sloppy, but Kon doesn't seem to mind too much, fitting his hands around Tim's waist and boosting him the little extra so they're on a level.

Tim hasn't a clue how long they've been kissing in the hallway of Wayne Manor when Kon sets him down gently. "Tim—"

"So you can't sub or Dom me. So what? That's what platonic dynamics are _for._ Like you're gonna get crazy jealous if I need help from Bruce or Cass? Or if Damian needs me now and then? I know you better."

Kon frowns. "But you'll never—Sex will never—"

"Be hot? Trust me, I beg to differ," Tim says as dryly as he can, and refrains from pointing to his raging erection only through the greatest of willpower.

"Be dynamic. You will never get to experience that."

Tim hears the worry in Kon's voice, so he presses the palm of his hand to Kon's cheek. "Maybe not. Or maybe you'll be willing to play along now and then. I don't know, I don't care. Dynamics are a biological imperative and they can be handled outside of sex. Maybe they make sex more fun at times for those of us who function within them. But the possibility of a little more fun in my sex life isn’t enough for me to lose the chance to be with a guy who makes me laugh and who regularly actually saves the world. It's just not."

"We all save the world, that's—it's in the job description."

"Sure," Tim agrees easily, even though he could argue. "But you took the job. And there were a couple open to you."

Kon makes a noise low in his throat. Tim goes back up to his toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "C'mon, let's go check on Damian. Then we can find out how fun things can be even without dynamics. Sound like a plan?"

Kon holds his hand out. Tim takes it, grins, and pulls him down the hallway.

*

Jason doesn't know where to start. Things are never exactly linear in his mind, mostly just this mess of "stuff that happened" that he handles. After a minute or so of silence, Dick asks gently, "When did you present?"

And yeah, actually, that's a good place to start. "Seven, so, not too young, thankfully. Before that Willis was just, I dunno, your average douchebag crack addict. There were a lot of them in the Narrows. Mom, Catherine, she was…also an addict, but I think—I think if she could have cared, she would have. Just, by the time I came around, too much of her brain had been eaten away by the stuff."

Jason closes his eyes. "But she at least had kindness in her. Willis…well. He was best when he was too high to notice anything or anyone around him. Before I presented, I'd try and get money other ways, just to keep him 'on his medicine', you know? I, uh. I'd steal. I'd've panhandled, but you know as well as I do anyone who could afford to give me anything wouldn't be anywhere near that side of town."

Jason releases his breath and opens his eyes. "Anyway, I got interesting to him after he realized I'd presented, because sub virgins could be auctioned through Penguin and they brought in quite the price."

"Jesus, is that still—"

"I don't think so. Pretty sure Bruce actually did manage to put the fear of the Bat into Penguin on that front. Haven't heard any rumblings, but sub virgins will always get sold. Put one house out of business, another will come along, it's just—it's just how the world is." Jason digs his fingernails into his skin. "In any case, he put me on an auction block. I stabilized fully at eight, but managed to keep it hidden from him until I was nine, so, yeah, that was when I was sold off that first time."

Jason swallows a little frantically. "He wasn't bad, really, the guy who won me. I thought he was at the time, because it was my first time and I'd never been down before and I was scared and fought and the sex hurt. But he at least told me I had been good afterward, so the drop wasn't so terrible. There would be a lot worse, is all. But."

Jason bites his lip. Dick says, "But it was your first."

Jason nods even though Dick can't see him. "Yeah. And it—it made it hard to do it again. That was the thing, you know? Like, maybe if I'd been able to be unafraid, to be less victim and more…I don't even know, but not what I was, maybe then I could have controlled it more, made it so it wasn't quite so bad all the time."

"Wow, no, Jay. _No._ There is literally no version of this situation where anything that happened to you was your fault. And if this was any other sub telling you this story, even someone you _hated_ , you'd be telling them the exact same thing. So, once again, because it's worth repeating, no, no, and a whole world of no."

Jason lets Dick's voice wash over him, lets the words linger in his mind a bit, turning them around and sideways and then back again. He stores them up for later, because Dick's not wrong and that's…that's something he needs to think about. "I—maybe. But one way or another, it was…" Jason's not sure what word he's looking for. "I hated the ones who wanted me to act like I wanted it more than the ones who got off on my fear or pain because at least the latter were pretty honest about the transaction, about what they were doing."

"Yeah," Dick says, a world of sadness in the single word. 

"You know the funniest thing about being bought by Batman?"

After a very long, somewhat tense, silence in which Jason realizes he might not have ever explained what actually happened the night he met Bruce, Dick responds with a very careful, "No, I do not."

Jason finds himself huffing out the start of a laugh. It's not amusing, really, but there's beginning to be a healing element to it. "I was just excited to see the Batmobile. It's, I mean, you have to know, when you're a kid, it's so… I'd never even had toy cars, toys, aside from what I might've managed to scrape together or conjure up. And there it was, in real life, shiny and big and I just wanted to touch it. You'd think a trash kid from a trash place'd know better, but I guess…I dunno, I guess there are things you can't teach kids."

Jason shrugs. "Anyway, good or bad, he came back while I was geeking out over his car and I panicked and defaulted to instinct, which was to lean up against the car and say, 'hey mister, looking for a friend?'"

Jason _does_ laugh, then. "He probably threw up a little in the cowl."

Dick's laugh is an awkward, but genuine bark. "Probably. Poor Alfred, I hope he burned it."

It makes Jason laugh again, and for the first time in his life, that moment doesn't feel like another reminder of how stupid he is, how much _less_. "He, uh. I think he knew I wasn't gonna go with him without getting paid. So he offered a thousand, which, believe me, was more money than I'd ever thought I'd see in my life. And he was Batman. He didn't kill people, so the worst he'd do was hurt me, and I'd been hurt. My logic was actually pretty airtight."

"He must've been praying to every deity in existence Alfred would know what to do with you."

"Oh yeah, I'd imagine so." Jason breathes. "Um. I'm gonna come over to you now."

"Can I hold you, or hands off?"

Jason answers by snuggling into Dick's side once he's there. Dick wraps an arm around him. Quietly he asks, "What happened with the Joker, Jay?"

Jason tightens up. Dick says, "It—it's the other piece of the puzzle I'm missing, I think. Joker and the time with Talia."

Jason nods. Dick's not wrong. "He…he dosed me. Not with his stuff. With Push venom. I've never—going down, even involuntarily, there's a center to hold to. The, um, edges, I guess, might be disorienting, even sickening, but the center is something, it's _there_. But Push is meant for Doms, it's, it creates a false space, one deeper and murkier and so…so _wrong_. I would have done anything he said, I think. I think I would have hurt Sheila, for the chance that some kind of center would appear, that I could feel like my feet were underneath me."

Jason knows he's shaking, can't stop. Dick is running a hand up and down his arm, making quiet sounds in the back of his throat. Jason lays his head down on Dick's shoulder. "At first he just made me count the hits. Wh-when we got to twenty-five, though, I had to ask for each once, thank him afterward. He just. He just _laughed_ when I screamed, not even his usual laugh, it was almost…real, I think."

"Jay," Dick whispers.

"I tried to get Sheila out of there. I knew, I knew I was done. But I thought, you know, if I saved her, then Bruce, he'd have to think I'd been good. I needed that. I've, I always need approval when I'm down. Shit, sometimes it helps when I'm not. But like that, without any anchors—my last thoughts were that I'd failed him, failed everyone. That I was _bad_."

"Jesus fuck," Dick says.

Jason's laugh is a little wet. "Talia, she—the Pit, everything is like fire in your bones, and this intensity of emotions that isn't comparable to anything real. There aren't words, not really. But mostly I think I came back to myself like I died, screaming and so certain of my own failure."

"You didn't fail, Jay."

"Sh," Jason says, because it's nice to hear, but to get through this part he needs Dick to just listen. And he'll need those words later, he knows all too well. "I don't, in some ways, I don't mind that part anymore. She could have just asked me to help with Damian, she could have. I would have done it for Damian the second I met him. The second I saw the confusion in his eyes, the way he seemed to think he'd been born wrong, I would have. I—I _wish_ she'd asked. I think, in her eyes, though, the only way she was assured his safety was by conditioning a Bat. And even dead, I was her best bet in a number of ways."

"Yeah," Dick says. "I know it doesn't make it better, but I suspect the same things that would have convinced you terrified her. She's not at her best when terrified."

"I know," Jason says, suddenly feeling so exhausted that forming the words is hard.

"It was still a type of rape. Maybe different in form, but more in a life already burdened by too much of it."

Jason shudders at the word laid bare, feeling it out, letting it justify his lingering fear, rage. When the emotions begin to feel blunted by sheer exhaustion, he says, "If I don't get you back in bed now, I don't know if I can."

"Come with me, Jay."

"I—"

"Please. _Please_."

The only time Jason has ever been interested in Dick begging is in a super-hypothetical sexual situation, and they are not in that situation. "Okay, Dick, okay. I'll be here."

*

Bruce comes to frantic. Hal is sleeping with his head on Bruce's bed—he's been awake more than not for the better part of seventy-two hours—but he startles awake when Bruce practically jackknifes off the bed. Hal presses him back into it, which would normally be a struggle, but Bruce was just reassembled and sewn back together, so it's not too hard to apply some pressure and keep him in bed.

"Bruce, don't," Hal says, and Bruce stops.

"Hal."

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Dick?" 

"Safe and at the Manor. Alfred checked in a couple of hours ago, it was a bit of a rough night here and there, but everyone's either still sleeping or been fed breakfast, and he's put Damian to giving Titus and Goliath a bath which is working nicely as a distraction. Kon's still there helping out."

The two of them have been watching Tim and Kon bumble around each other for the better part of the two boys' teenage years, so it's not a surprise when Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Oh, he is, is he?"

Hal laughs, feeling just about every knot in his body, particularly those in his stomach, loosen a bit. "Man, only if we're lucky is it finally like that. The sexual tension is probably going to kill one of them, soon, and Tim's physically more frail. Also, if it is like that, for the record, Tim's sixteen, so well done on getting that far until you've had this problem with him. Oh, and that's all you. I'm the step-dad for a reason." 

"Mm, bullshit," Bruce says, which tells Hal exactly how tired he is, because Bruce doesn't default to profanity unless he's too exhausted to make his argument with at least twenty words that all mean "bullshit" when strung together. Hal blames Alfred in the fondest way possible.

"You give me eight more hours of sleep, I'll take you home and you can check on everyone yourself, deal?"

"Or I could just get up now and zeta back."

"Mhm." Hal nods. "Lemme know how that works out for you."

Bruce pushes himself into a sitting position and Hal pushes him right back down, which continues to be a lot easier than it should be. "You don't have to prove to me that you're the baddest man in the whole damn town."

Bruce considers this for a moment and then closes his eyes, saying, "Badder than old King Kong."

Hal snorts, always amused when Bruce actually catches onto his pop culture references, even if that only generally happens when the references are at least fifty years old. "Yup," he agrees easily, covering one of Bruce's hands with his own. "Absolutely."

"Hal," Bruce murmurs.

"Yeah, babe?"

Bruce squeezes Hal's hand, then relaxes, going to sleep almost immediately. Hal says, "Yeah."

*

Tim wakes up on top of Kon and smiles into his chest. They hadn't done anything beyond making out until they were so tired they couldn't move their mouths, but it had been good, perfect, even. Kon must either have been awake or woken to Tim's stirring, because he works his hand under the hem of Tim's shirt, splaying it over his back.

"Morning," Tim says.

Kon makes a sound of disgust. Tim agrees, especially because, "I think you should probably get back to the Tower. Make sure things are okay with the Titans and they haven't just not been mentioning stuff to us."

Kon says, "Probably," and doesn't move.

"I'm okay, here. Gonna go check on Jason and Dick in a bit, but I've got Alfred as back up, and I suspect if we didn't hear anything else last night, they most likely worked it out."

"Yup," Kon says, still not moving. 

Tim laughs. "I don't want to, either, but at some point, we're going to have to return to being functional superheroes and less-functional people."

Kon laughs in response. "Well put."

"Also, you should come back here tonight, assuming you're not caught up in Titans' business. I'm gonna take patrol with Cass and Steph, but without Dick, Jason, or Bruce, it would be nice to have an extra pair of eyes out there."

"That why I should come back?" Kon asks, his hand making a lazy swipe up the length of Tim's spine.

"Well, that, and I have a highly scientific interest in the erogenous zone of Kryptonian-Human hybrids."

"So, I need to return for science, is what I'm hearing you say."

"Super hearing, so useful," Tim says.

Kon rolls over at that, pressing Tim onto his back and pinning him to the bed. Tim has the automatic urge to fight, to _make_ Kon _really_ pin him. Kon must see something in his body language, because he smirks. "Not now."

"That implies later," Tim breathes.

"Well, who am I to stand in the way of scientific progress?"

"Good question. I've got no answers."

Kon grins. "There's a first."

*

When Jason wakes, he actually is in drop. It makes it impossible to think clearly, makes it impossible to feel anything except guilt and misery and the sense that he has messed up _again._ It's not a terrible one. He's shaky and his muscles hurt and his stomach wants to climb out of his body, but he's neither feverish nor out of his mind, and he's not bringing up intestinal matter.

He does the only thing he can think to do and drags himself to the closet, where his mind tells him he can be safe. It's not logical. There's no way to lock the closet from inside. Really, it's just that he can put his back to the wall and have clear sights to the entrance. It's a walk-in closet, all of the closets in the manor are. There's a light in it, no other forms of egress. There's a fluffy rug he can pull to his seating spot of choice and settle on, tucking himself in a shaking ball of hormonal waste.

Jason has no idea how long he's in there before the door opens. He's got a batarang and a stun baton in his hands. He doesn't even remember bringing those in with him. Dick freezes. He's in a wheelchair, holding a tray balanced on a blanket. He says, "Morning, Jay. I'd like a morning cuddle, if that's okay with you?"

It hurts to think, his head throbbing. Dick says, "Jay, put down the weapons. I'm not going to hurt you. At this moment, I honestly think I might skin someone alive if they thought about hurting you."

Something of it gets to him. He can't say what. It doesn't matter. He puts down the weapons. Time skips a little then, because he misses Dick somehow getting himself out of the chair and settled next to Jason, Dick folding him in a blanket and pulling Jason into his arms. Misses Dick putting a straw to his lips.

"Drink, sweetheart," Dick says, and Jason does. The water's good. Not too cold, not room temperature. He eats from Dick's fingers. Fruits and vegetables, almonds, some pita and hummus. Finger foods high in protein, fiber, and fructose.

Dick says, "That's good, good job," after almost everything: every sip taken, bite eaten, slower breath taken. By the time the plate's been finished, Jason isn't out of drop, but the worst of it has receded. When Dick tugs him closer he goes easily, fisting his hands in Dick's shirt. He's vaguely aware this is the first time he's ever felt safe enough to do that with a Dom while in drop. Even with Bruce he's always been entirely passive.

Dick scratches at his scalp, massaging pressure points, relieving the worst of the headache. After a bit he says, "It's nice out. Will you be my chariot so I can spend some time in the sun? Pushing the chair is still a little tiring at the moment," he admits.

If he were in his right mind, Jason would scold Dick for being on his feet long enough to even get in and out of the chair, for expending that kind of energy while he needs to be allowing his body to heal. Instead, he gets to his own feet and pulls Dick into his arms, the blanket still wrapped around him like a cape. He takes them out to the balcony, where there's a swing. He seats Dick on it lengthwise, so his feet are up.

Dick makes grabby hands at him and Jason goes easily, fitting himself behind Dick, working to jostle him as little as possible while making it so he's supporting Dick's weight, rather than the other way around. It is nice out, warm and dry, just the slightest hint of a breeze.

Dick twists slightly to kisses the skin at the base of Jason's neck and says, "I got you."

The most terrifying part is, even with Dick whimpering at the mere act of turning his head, Jason believes him.

*

Watching Damian in the week after Bruce returns is one of the most painful things Hal has ever seen. And Hal is a fucking space cop. He's seen some shit. But Damian's clearly torn between being amazed Bruce came back, certain it isn't because of Damian, all too glad to have him back, embarrassed of feeling that way, and also, at the heart of things, a child who's been taught he's not allowed to be a child.

He's a hot mess.

The reassuring part is, he's acting out. Oh, Hal knows he should be annoyed as all get out that Damian keeps doing things like putting salt in the sugar shakers, refusing to do any chores whatsoever, and acting up enough at school that there has been an honest-to-G-d parent-teacher conference. He knows he should be _pissed_ at Damian for screaming at Bruce that he hates him and wishes he didn't have a dad during the ensuing argument about school, the way Bruce's body language went too-calm and removed, the way his eyes flattened out.

Hal should be mad, but honestly, it's the first sign the kid has shown in relation to Bruce and the adults he considers to be authority figures that he has it in him to _be_ a kid, not a weapon or a tiny-soldier, trained for a single purpose and to silence and obedience in all other things. So rather than being upset, Hal spends most of his time trying not to let on to Damian that he's kind of overjoyed, because it's not as if he wants to encourage this behavior. He just doesn't precisely want to _discourage_ it just yet.

"Are you enjoying this?" Bruce asks, and it's perfectly even except for how Hal is basically married to the man and he knows what he's actually being asked is, "are you off your fucking rocker?"

"I enjoy your successes, B, what can I say?"

Bruce blinks in that slow way he has sometimes, like he's re-evaluating every life choice that led him to a particular moment. "He attempted a topiary garden and merely destroyed a third of the shrubbery, something Alfred is going to kill me in my sleep over. And then where will you be?"

"Pretty well off, since I believe if Alfred can't inherit, which murder would probably preclude, I stand to come into even more than you've already willed me." And whoa hadn't that been the fight of the century. Really, it was amazing Hal hadn't burnt the Manor down around them. He considers it one of his more restrained moments.

"As if Alfred wouldn't frame you so tightly nobody would ever suspect otherwise."

Hal opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again to say, "Your point is taken."

Hal shakes his head, "But the real point here is that Damian is being a _kid_. Sure, a little shit of one, which, c'mon, he deserves a few weeks of, right? And I'm actually willing to bet Dick did worse at times, just not on purpose."

"I neither confirm nor deny those assertions," Bruce says.

"Yeah, so, you know. It's…he's learning to trust you. And I can't begrudge him that."

Bruce looks at him so piercingly that Hal holds his breath, because sometimes Bruce sees things Hal hasn't rooted out in himself yet, and that is never fun. But in the end Bruce just leans in for a kiss and says, "Okay, but the next time he destroys something of Alfred's, I'm letting Alfred loose on him."

"Only fair."

*

The second official date Dick takes Jason on, once the former is back on his feet, is to the circus. It's a cirque, no animals, just human acts. Dick knows the acrobats, evidently one of them was part of the family troupe in a circus loosely connected with Haley's at the time Dick had been performing. Dick buys them popcorn, and if Jason goes back for handfuls a few more times than he would if it didn't mean brushing Dick's hand with his, nobody's going to know.

The acts are genuinely enchanting. Jason has always been intrigued by performance of all kind, and competence is a thing for him. And, as much as he has no interest in admitting it, Dick's uninhibited pleasure in everything, even when he can see all the flaws most people can't, is intoxicating as well. Dick is—Dick is everything Jason wants to roll his eyes at, and everything he wants, all in one stupidly attractive package, and it is both terrible and magical.

Jason doesn't put out on the second date because Dick kisses him and says, "Nope, we're doing this right," like there's some reason he has to court Jason. Like Jason's someone, _something_ he has to work for. It makes Jason feel unmoored, happy in a way he cannot pinpoint and doesn't understand. 

Their third date is at a used bookstore, Dick trailing after Jason as he makes his way meticulously through each of the sections that interest him, the two of them curling up with coffee in the overstuffed chairs in the back, where there's a drip machine and not much else.

The fourth date is chili-fries in an all-night diner after they've both gotten off patrol on a night when Dick has the next day off from his day job. Jason sips at his strawberries 'n cream milkshake and says, "I wanna—you said we could have sex if it wasn't during a scene and I wanted it."

Dick stops with a fry half-way to his mouth for a moment, then continues, chewing it slowly before he says, "That is the gist of what I said, I will give you that."

"I want to try." Jason flushes and looks down. "I mean, obviously I know how—"

"Hey." Dick shakes his head. "We try. That's all it is. And if it doesn't work, we figure out why, and we try again."

Jason nods, "Yeah."

"Just, uh. Not that this will probably be shocking to you, but I get a little, um, I mean sometimes when I'm in bed with someone I can go toward the—"

"Bossy?" Jason offers, his eyebrow quirked.

"I was gonna say D-type, but yeah, that works," Dick admits. "I just need to be sure you'll tell me where to step off if you need to."

Jason's not sure what he can promise. He's not sure what will happen or how he'll react. So he gives him the next best thing: "I'll safeword if I need to. Red, like normal."

"That works. Is there anything you really like that I should know about? Anything I really shouldn't do?"

"No hair pulling," Jason says immediately. "And I'm not calling you Daddy."

"Not a thing for me, it's cool."

"Try to overcome your shock, but I like praise, even outside a scene."

"Yeah, I have a feeling that's not going to be a problem," Dick says, giving Jason an appreciative once over.

"No pain," Jason says. "Not—not this time. We can renegotiate later."

"I was thinking we'd play it a little vanilla, at least the first few times."

Jason shrugs. "I've never done that before, so probably worth a shot."

Something flickers over Dick's face that might be rage or sadness or any of a million things. It's gone before Jason can be sure. Dick fishes out a twenty and says, "C'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand."

Jason says, "Wow, so romance, such gentleman."

*

They go back to Dick's place because it's closer. And Jason can admit to himself that he'd prefer to try this somewhere other than the Manor, somewhere he doesn't necessarily identify as safe and need to _keep_ safe. It's not that he's worried Dick will get aggressive or suddenly decide to be an asshole about this, but all the same, he's nervous. He kind of thinks he's earned that.

Dick takes him by the hand once they're inside and leads him to the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Dick shuts all the shades and turns on the overhead light. "I wanna undress you. May I?"

Everything in Jason screams to just give permission. Instead he holds out. "If I get to undress you."

"Wanna go first, or second?"

Jason blinks at the easy acquiescence. He knows it's stupid to keep being surprised by Dick being a considerate partner, but his brain isn't ready to just accept that someone who might want him might also want to treat him the way he'd expect anyone he loved to be treated. The way he'd fight to make sure anyone else was treated. "Um. Second."

He'll keep it in his mind as a reward, in case he gets panicky. Dick grins, "My turn, then."

Jason's got a Henley on. There's no need to unbutton the three buttons at the collar, but Dick does, one by one. He traces the v created by the now-open collar. "Jesus there isn't an inch of you I don't want to get my mouth on."

Jason feels himself flush. Other than pervy johns, nobody has ever complimented him on his looks, suggested he was compelling in that way. Even as a teen, when he was safe from unwanted advances and could slip into the skin of Robin on a nightly basis, he'd merely felt awkward, blundering. And that had been on good days, when he wasn't convinced he needed to scrub his skin completely off so nobody would know how filthy he still was.

As an adult he's just—huge. There's nothing dainty or graceful about him, he doesn't even have the smooth edges Hal has which _hint_ at something softer underneath. He's a leviathan.

But Dick is looking at him as though none of that matters. No, Dick is looking at Jason like that is exactly what Dick _wants._ Jason is finding it a little hard to breathe. Dick presses his lips to Jason's, although he doesn't kiss him, and says, "Arms up, gorgeous."

Jason puts them up, and Dick pulls the shirt off him, throwing it aside to splay his hands over Jason's pecs. There's something possessive in Dick's eyes, dark and complex, but it's not scaring Jason. It's making him feel like he belongs.

Dick says, "I want to kiss you."

There's a long moment before Jason realizes Dick is _asking permission._ He says, "Yes, yeah, you should do that."

Dick cups the back of Jason's head in his hand and moves in so they're flush. The kiss is sweet, undemanding, and Jason loses himself in it. It is Dick who pulls away at some point, panting, saying, "I will not be distracted from getting you naked," and proceeds to kneel down and unlace Jason's shoes, pull his socks off, and then kneel up to shuck Jason of his jeans and boxers. 

Dick sits back on his heels, and takes in the view and it's everything Jason can do not to run and hide. Instead he says, " _My _turn," and folds to his knees. Dick is in a hoodie that Jason pulls over his head. Unlike Jason, Dick is all long lines, graceful arches.__

__Jason gently pushes him back onto his ass and pulls Dick's feet out in front of him so Jason can unlace the sneakers, peel off his socks, and then levers Dick up a bit to get his jeans and underwear off. He pushes a little bit more to get Dick on his back, spread out in a way which allows Jason to lean over him and explore._ _

__Jason hesitates and Dick says, "I'm yours. Do what you want."_ _

__The list is considerable, but Jason starts by letting himself just look at how fucking gorgeous Dick is. Gorgeous, and kind, and somehow his. Jason straddles his legs and leans over to suck at the skin of Dick's neck, his collarbone. Dick makes happy, needy noises that Jason cannot help grinning at. He licks his way down Dick's sternum and over to a nipple._ _

__Dick practically levitates off the ground when Jason takes the nipple in his mouth and Jason rears back. "Whoa, hey, should I have—"_ _

__Dick's mouth is on his then, kissing and muttering about how amazing Jason's mouth is, and Jason laughs and says, "Little sensitive, huh?"_ _

__He leans in again to nip at the skin of Dick's stomach, and Dick laughs at the tickle of it. He works his way down, licking and sucking and even nibbling, straight down to the ankle bone, ignoring one very significant area._ _

__When he straightens up, Dick's pupils are blown, and his, "C'mere," sounds slightly drunk. Dick tugs them onto the bed and Jason goes easily enough. Dick places Jason on his side so that when he begins his own exploration he's not over Jason, just in front of him. It's heartbreakingly thoughtful._ _

__When he gets to Jason's thighs he glances up at Jason and says, "I wanna suck you, Jay. I'm—you're so—"_ _

__Jason actually has no idea of what Dick is trying to say, other than maybe 'fessing up once again to being a size queen, because Jason is pretty proportionate in all things, but he knows he wants Dick's mouth on him, so he makes a "go ahead" gesture with his hand, says, "Yeah, that'd be—yeah."_ _

__Jason's never had someone's mouth on his cock and it's possible he mildly underestimated just how good it would feel, because it's less than a minute before he's saying, "Stop, stop, you—"_ _

__Dick's off him at the first syllable. "Jay?"_ _

__"Sorry, just, um. That was going to be over really quickly."_ _

__Dick's smile is the most shit-eating expression Jason has seen in his _life._ He asks, "Can I? Please? C'mon, do a guy's ego a solid, Jay. I promise next time we do this I'll let you take it as slow as you want, but I just—that's…that's so fucking hot."_ _

__Jason rolls his eyes. "You are so fucking _weird_ , but sure, I guess."_ _

__Dick's smile gets even wider. He diverts his mouth for a moment to Jason's balls, and Jason has to dig his fingernails into his palm not to come at _that_. There's not even any particular finesse to it, that Jason can tell, and Dick can barely get half of him down. It doesn't matter. Jason's brain is being pulled right out of his cock within _maybe_ a whole of forty seconds. Dick swallows some of it, but then sits back a little so that most of it lands on his face, and if Jason had it within him to get it up again immediately, that visual would probably manage it for him._ _

__Dick wipes a finger through the mess and sucks it into his mouth like the total little shit Jason is just now comprehending he completely and totally is. Jason's eyes flutter closed from the waves of pleasure rolling over him and it takes him a second to recover. When his brain starts coming back together he rolls over onto Dick, kissing him desperately, nothing sweet in it, just possessive and desirous and thorough._ _

__Dick pulls away long enough to pant, "Can I—" rubbing his cock against Jason's thigh. Jason says, "Absolutely not," and instead fists Dick, eliciting an actual sob and a "yes, please, please."_ _

__Jason would honestly give him anything he wanted at this point. It only gets worse with Dick breaking off kisses to mutter broken praises about how good Jason's hand feels, how hot Jason is. Dick comes keening Jason's name and it's at once the most powerful and most protected Jason has ever felt._ _

__When Dick goes limp against him, as if someone has pulled all the bones right out of his body, Jason says, "So, we should do this again. A lot."_ _

__"All the time," Dick agrees. "Honestly, I'm quitting the force. I can live off my inheritance."_ _

__Jason laughs, a sharp bark that feels clean and freeing. "Okay, but I'm not explaining to Bruce that his favorite decided to become the black sheep's concubine, that's all you."_ _

__Dick lightly shoves at him, presumably for the favorite-black sheep element of the comment. All he says, though, is, "Sure, I'll just sing an ode to your cock. It'll freak him out more than enough to get him off both our cases."_ _

__"I'm starting to feel a little sorry for Bruce, which is something I never thought I'd say."_ _

__"I'm a handful," Dick agrees, and Jason laughs some more._ _


	10. Crowd Me With Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets a letter, Hal calls a family meeting, there's lots of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is it. HUGE HUGE thanks to those reading along, I love all of you with the whole of my degenerate little heart.

"I had sex with Dick," Jason tells Dinah, and follows with a kick so strong she actually goes sprawling.

She blinks up at him. "Jason Peter Wayne, you devious, dirty fighting asshole." 

It's said with such appreciation for the tactic that Jason can't help but preen a bit. He holds out a hand to her and she takes it, pulling him down into a ground grapple. She's doing a good job of crushing him to death with her thighs even as she says, "It was good, right? Because if not, let me tell you, a lot of the ladies and a number of the men in the League are going to be disappointed."

"Wow," Jason says.

"We're only human," she responds, unapologetic.

"Not J'onn. Or Kara. Clark—"

"Smartass." She flips as he manages to break her hold. "But seriously. Did you enjoy it? "

"It wasn't—we weren't scening. There wasn't dynamic play." He feels like that might be important.

"So? Jay, if dynamics were needed for good sex, Ollie and I'd be dead in the water. And believe me," she waggles her eyebrows. "We're not."

"Jesus, stop talking."

"Sure, as soon as you answer my question."

He ducks as she attempts to headlock him. "It was…good seems kinda weak."

She stops, then, putting a hand to his chest to stop him, too. Her smile is warm. "Yeah?"

He looks down at the ground. "Is it stupid that part of me is still scared? We _did_ it, it was fun and—and sweet, I guess, nothing I didn't want and I can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I'd be surprised if you could."

He looks up at her, raising a brow. She shrugs. "You just overcame a huge hurdle. That's awesome, and you shouldn't let yourself be anything other than proud as fuck. Doesn't mean there aren't other hurdles, and sure as hell doesn't mean that having done something once, it loses all power of anticipatory fear. You went through years of abuse and rape and use. It'd be great if one good experience could overcome all of that, but if it were that easy, the world probably wouldn't need anyone in my profession."

He clenches his fist. "Does it—will it ever not be a thing? Will I ever just be a normal guy with a normal sex life?"

"Are we setting aside the fact that you're a Bat in this presumptivity of so-called normality?"

Jason rubs at his chest. "I take your point, but yeah, kinda."

She shakes her head a bit. "Probably not. Trauma stays with us. It heals, but there are always scars. And you're going to have those. They just won't ache as much as the original wounds at some point, or even the healing ones."

"But you're saying it gets better."

She smiles, a partial quirk of her lips. "Hasn't it already, kid?"

*

When MIT's letter comes in an 9x11 manila envelope, rather than the normal business one, Jason knows he's gotten in. Nobody spends extra money to tell someone "not interested." It's his top choice. Where they'd been known as one of the worst schools for a sub to attend less than a decade before, a series of famous alums coming out as subs and donating buckets of money and time to turn the problem around had made it a place where subs were part of an active conversation in how to even out the inequities in STEM-based workplaces. And it's only two and a half hours from Gotham by car.

Jason finds himself walking toward Tim's room and knocking on the door. Despite it being three in the afternoon, Tim answers the door disheveled, clearly having just woken up. Jason says, "Shit, I forgot you were out with the Titans, go back to sleep."

But Tim's eyes have already found the envelope and he grabs it from Jason. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's from MIT," Jason says.

Tim grins. "Holy shit, Jay. Holy—haven’t you opened it? You should open it."

Jason steps inside the room and says, "Will you just, uh. Just do that, for me?"

Tim doesn't even hesitate, ripping into the envelope with glee and reading the acceptance letter with so much unbridled pleasure Jason would almost think it was _Tim's_ acceptance letter. Suddenly he has an arm full of Tim, who's hugging him and talking about all the things Jason needs to do when he gets to Cambridge.

Jason just holds onto Tim, who has strangely become someone safe, a known, trusted quantity. Jason misses when Tim's babbling slows down, but he doesn't miss Tim's, "Jay? You okay?"

He nods, but Jason can't force words past his throat. Tim says, "You know if you don't like it, all you have to do is come back to us, right?"

"Easy for the kid who's never been the family fuck up to say." 

Tim pulls back. "Just for calling yourself that, I'm telling Bruce you said that."

"Tim—"

Tim shakes his head. "C'mon, I wanna go see Alfred do his I'm-not-emotional-at-all thing about you going to college. I wasn't here when Dick moved out, but I've heard tell it was epic. Would you deny me this one thing?"

"Wow, you're an asshole," Jason says, laughing.

"I just want you to know that if I wasn't holding this paper telling me you are very, very smart, I'd be sincerely doubting your intelligence at this moment."

Jason suspects Tim doubts everyone's intelligence the overwhelming majority of the time. He doesn't mention that. Instead he says, "Let's find Damian and bring him along. He'll feel hurt if he's the last to know."

"He was out back half an hour ago when I returned. Pretty sure he's still playing spies & assassins with Goliath."

"He's the spy?" Jason asks.

"Stealthy, Goliath is not," Tim confirms.

*

Jason isn't expecting a drop after the second time he has sex with Dick. For one thing, they weren't engaging in dynamics, since they'd agreed they weren't ready. For another, it had been pretty lowkey. Jason had ended up grabbing their cocks in his hand and fisting them, the heat of their cocks touching and the scant overlay of friction more than enough to bring them both off. It had been _fun_. Dick had encouraged him and kissed him messily, sweetly.

Basically, there's no reason why less than ten minutes later, Jason is shivering so hard his teeth are knocking up against one another, feeling alone and achy and tense despite Dick being _right next to him._

"Oh, hey," Dick says, easy and like his boyfriend isn't have a breakdown over the most vanilla sex to ever come from a vanilla bean. "C'mon, let's take a bath. I've even got a baking soda mix Alfred swears by."

He gets up and wraps his comforter around Jason, dwarfing him in the goose-down piece, then ushering him into the bathroom, where he seats Jason on the toilet. He closes the door and starts running the water, rummaging in his drawers until he finds a sandwich baggie and pulls it out with a sound of triumph.

Dick pours it into the water and then comes back to stand in front of Jason and wrap himself around Jason as best he can. Dick says, "You're good, you're doing great."

Jason manages a shaky laugh. Dick says, "Nobody laughs at my sub," and it is an _order._ Jason feels it to his toes. Dick has never, not even in a scene, come down so hard about something. 

Jason can't help but respond, "Yes, sir."

"Good, that's good," Dick says. "You kind of blew my mind back there. I might not have had the words to tell you that. There'll be a time when you know, when I don't have to say the words, but I should have known we weren't there yet."

Jason takes a breath. "Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted so long as you don't interrupt."

"Sometimes I just drop. It can't always be—it's not necessarily rational."

Dick makes a sound, bending down to press a kiss to the crown of Jason's head. He moves away then, fussing with the taps for a moment before divesting Jason of the comforter and pulling him into the tub. It's a pretty normal-sized tub, so with the two of them, tight-fit is an understatement, but Dick finds a way to position them so it works. The double punch of heat from Dick's body and the bath starts working at the worst of the cold and it's easier to breathe, easier to listen to Dick talking about nothing in particular, just rambling so that Jason can have the cadence of his voice.

Jason doesn't fall asleep, exactly, but he floats and when things start coming back into focus a bit, Dick has him on his feet and is drying him off with a towel. Dick must see the change because he smiles and says, "Hey there. I want you to eat something before you sleep."

It's not a request. Jason nods. He follows Dick into the small kitchen, and watches as Dick pulls out one of Alfred's chicken pot-pies and warms it in the microwave. He hands Jason a fork and they share, the heat and rich sauce of the pie the perfect comfort food. Dick watches as Jason drinks all of the glass of water Dick poured for him.

Dick puts the glass pie-pan in the sink, going to the freezer and pulling out a pint of cookies 'n cream ice cream. He scoops two sizeable balls of ice cream into a bowl and sets it between them, much as he had the pie, handing Jason a spoon. Jason says, "I love cookies 'n cream."

"I know," Dick says. "It was the only ice cream you ever wanted with the cake at your birthday parties."

Jason blinks. He forgets there are parts of himself that come from before, at least, worthwhile parts. He forgets other people might find those parts worth remembering. He takes a bite of the ice cream. "Thanks. For just—just doing this. Just helping. Not acting like I was a freak or a problem or—"

Dick leans over the counter to kiss him, lips sugary and cold. "I love you, Jason Wayne. You don't have to say it back, but you have to know it, really know it. I love you, and even when you're annoying or upsetting me, I _still_ love you. And if hot baths and comfort meals are the price of that love, well." Dick grins. "I've made it through worse."

"Dick," Jay says softly.

"I don't like it that you feel miserable when you drop, but I sure as hell like being needed. I'm a Dom. Weirdo Dom, maybe, but still, a Dom. There are certain things that are always going to make my inner beast purr. You needing extra care isn't a problem, Jason, it's a gift. You just haven't learned to see it that way."

Jason swallows. "That's…that's a lot."

Dick's laugh is uncertain, but not afraid. "Yeah, well, finish your ice cream. I wanna cuddle. I deserve cuddles."

"You do," Jason agrees, and finishes his ice cream.

*

Damian has escalated his war against, well, everything, since Jason announced his intention to head to Boston. And while Hal recognizes progress to a certain extent, he also acknowledges things are getting a bit out of control. Bruce is stuck between trying to let Damian do what he needs to do and getting to the point where he accidentally pushes Damian down because he's too frustrated to stop short.

The second time he snaps, Damian and his brood have trampled something that belonged to Martha. Damian is seething with hurt over the idea that maybe Bruce's mother is still more important to Bruce than him, and possibly, if Hal is reading things correctly, with jealousy over how much Bruce's mother showed Bruce she loved him. Bruce growls something about children who show up on doorsteps, something Hal _knows_ he doesn't mean, because Bruce gets _all_ his children from metaphorical doorsteps, for fuck's sake. Hal misses when he was the only one who regularly pissed Bruce off this much. 

But Damian just goes straight down, literally to his knees, his eyes wide and blank and waiting for orders. Bruce looks like he's going to vomit.

"Okay, time out," Hal says. He points at Bruce. "You. You get your kid back up to the surface, or at least where he can have a reasonable conversation."

Hal turns to go. Bruce balks. "Where are you going?"

"To call a family meeting." Hal says. And if he adds, _and to get myself a drink_ silently, nobody has to know.

*

Tim isn't really surprised by Hal knocking on his door, poking his head in at Tim's, "yeah?" and saying, "Family meeting, game room, in ten. No excuses."

He isn't surprised, but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to it. That said, in his more honest moments, Tim is all too pleased he has a family who cares enough about him to include him _in_ the family meetings, so it's also hard to be all that upset.

The game room is really just one of the Manor's many living spaces that has been converted into a place where everyone in the family has a place to unwind. It's casual and warm, which makes it a good spot to talk out whatever's brought this on. Tim can list a few possibilities.

He knows exactly what it is when he gets down to the game room, and a minute later Bruce walks in, carrying Damian on his side. Damian looks not just small—he _is_ small—but miniature, the way he generally does after tripping into subspace. 

Tim almost asks what he did this time, but Bruce looks what Tim would call defeated on anyone else, and Damian has his hands buried in Bruce's shirt, stretching the fabric, his face hidden entirely in Bruce's shoulder. Tim just makes a sympathetic face at Bruce, instead.

Cass appears at Tim's side with no warning, but that's kind of Cass' calling card. Jason comes in wearing gym shorts and a tank top, with his hands still bandaged, clearly having been in the middle of a workout. Dick's the last to show, which is fair, because he wasn't in the house at the time the meeting was called. As it is, Tim's wondering if he abused the zeta-tubes to get there. 

He's still in uniform, all neat as a pin, but he sits down next to Jason, who leans into him the way Tim has seen Alfred-the-cat do with Damian. It's sweet, even if Tim would never say so to either of their faces.

Hal's right behind Dick, walking in with Alfred, the two of them quietly discussing something. Hal breaks off to sit on the side of Bruce Damian has not claimed, while Alfred chooses one of the big armchairs. It's not precisely a circle, but they can all see each other.

Hal looks around and says, "Right. Thanks for coming, everyone."

Tim is willing to bet a month's worth of allowance he threatened anyone who didn't immediately accede with some serious ring action. Knowing Hal, that's part of the joke.

Hal continues, "As I think we're all aware, Jason has chosen to attend MIT in a few months’ time."

Jason blinks at that. Tim's a little surprised this is where they're starting as well, but now that he thinks on it, Damian's Reign of Terror did get _way_ worse after Jason's acceptance.

"I would like each of us, and I do mean each, to take one to two minutes to say how we feel about that. I'm going to start, we'll go counter clockwise." Hal gives Bruce, who will be the second in line, a Look. Then he says, "I, personally, think it's awesome I might have a shot at getting Jason to eventually design planes for me."

"I'm going into architectural engineering," Jason mentions.

"Stop killing my dreams with your so-called reality," Hal goes on smoothly. "My point is, I'm not worried that Jason's going to go to Boston and never come back because I know Jason cares about a lot of things here. Not just this family, but weirdly, this city. I don't know what it is with you people and Gotham, and I'm torn between admiring it and just thinking you're all batshit, pun absofuckinglutely intended, but either way, I want Jason to go and be a college kid and I'm okay with that, because I know we can always tempt him back here whenever we need him."

Jason frowns, and Tim can _see_ the pieces dropping into place. After a moment, Jason nods at Hal, but keeps quiet. It's Bruce's turn and Bruce takes a moment before saying, "I'm…proud. It's that simple. Nothing has been easy for you, not one single thing. And this is your accomplishment. I want for you to enjoy it, even if that means I have to miss you and worry about you and." Bruce looks down at the top of Damian's head, all but sighing. "Do the things you sometimes have to do as a father."

There's a long silence, and finally Hal has to prompt, "Damian, you too."

Damian brings his head up and confronts Jason with what is at once the meanest and most forlorn expression Tim has ever seen on a human being's face. He says, "You're nothing to me. Just go. "

Jason flinches, a full-body reaction and Dick hisses, "Damian!"

Jason puts a hand on Dick's knee and walks over to where Hal and Bruce are sitting, dropping onto his knees in front of the sofa so he'll be below Damian. "That sucks, kid, because you mean a lot to me. It's gonna be real weird, vid-calling every night and just talking to myself instead of you."

Damian rolls his eyes. "As if, _Todd_. You'll make friends and have classes and there won't be time for vid-calls with kids you played courier for, once."

"My last name is Wayne, same as yours, we are brothers. And even if we weren't, we would still be friends. You would still be the first person in the world who looked at me like I would keep you safe. You would still be the person who made it possible for me to re-unite with my family, and you would still be the person I want to tell immediately when cool things happen to me."

Jason takes a breath. "I hope I _do_ make friends. That'd be nice. Just some people who like me because I like school, or we have the same taste in movies, I dunno. But they won't be you. So I'm going to need that vid-call. And you'd better be here to pick up."

"I don't believe you," Damian sneers, and if his voice wavers, none of them are going to call attention to that. 

"I know," Jason says. "But whether you believe it or not, I'm way more stubborn than you, pip squeak."

Hal coughs conspicuously, and Bruce looks as if he has been vindicated by the universe itself. Damian just shrugs. "That was more than two minutes."

Jason lets it go, getting up to go sit by Dick again. Dick pulls him in a little more, and Jason allows it, melding into him. Alfred says, "Like Master Bruce, I am quite proud of you, Master Jason. I worry that you will not eat or sleep properly, and I shall miss your help in a myriad of ways, not to mention your laughter. But it shall make seeing you at holidays and times when you wish to visit all the more special."

Cass tilts her head. "I want to visit you. I've never been to Boston. And you should bring back Boston crème pies. Also, yourself. Bring yourself back."

From Cass, Tim ponders, that's a declaration of enormous filial devotion. Tim, having had time to think about this while the others were talking, still isn't entirely sure what he wants to say, but he does know, "I'm gonna miss you. Now that you're not being a snotrocket. But I'd be pretty excited to visit MIT, definitely. And if we got you to come back this time, I'm pretty confident we can get you to come back again. Even if you make it a challenge. But I don't think you will."

Jason is looking a little surprised, which makes Tim's stomach hurt. Jason is nothing if not excellent at not realizing that he matters to others. Tim smiles, and it's probably too fierce, but he doesn't care. This thing between them is still fragile, and Tim isn't going to be the one who lets it shatter.

Dick says, "I'm scared."

"What?" comes out of Jason's mouth and Tim can tell by the look on his face that he didn't mean for it to be said aloud. 

Dick shifts slightly, a betrayal of nerves. Dick is by far the worst of them at pushing down his emotions. It's something Tim admires, even if it worries the hell out of him. Dick says, "I'm your first boyfriend. That's…that's kind of equivalent to being a rebound in the situation you're in. It would be so easy for you to find some good looking Dom who's got his head on right who sees that you're, uh, you. And I'd just be the guy you grew up around who was good enough to help you out when you needed it."

"Holy shit, I'm dating an actual, honest-to-fuckballs moron," Jason says.

"Jay—"

"No, nope. Nope nope nope. My turn. _My turn._ You changed my world. My _world_. I thought all I was ever going to be was some street kid who once got lucky enough to be picked up by the right guy on a rainy night, you know? That who I was would define who I was always going to be. But you never even _saw_ that kid, even though he was right there the first time you burst into the cave and I was in your outfit and had a name that wasn't rightfully mine."

"Jay—"

"Shut it. I know, you didn't handle that the way you think you should have, because you think you should be perfect. Newsflash, I _know_ you're not perfect. I know from that first meeting, and I know from a million other moments, but you're perfect _to me._ And I have no idea why anything else should matter. I definitely have no idea why I'd look for something else when what I have is something like a perfection I didn't know could be real."

Dick swallows and says, "I'm allowed to be scared, Jay."

"Sure, but you're supposed to trust me."

Dick looks down at his lap at that and then, after several moments of the kind of silence Tim hates, glances up at Jason with a small, dented thing of a smile and says, "Yeah, okay, you're right."

"Hell yes I am," Jason says, which makes Dick laugh, and lean in for a kiss. It's short and sweet and full of apologies on both sides.

Jason says, "Now. To the rest of you. It's—this is hard to believe. Maybe always will be. That I have this, that I get to keep this. But I'm sure as hell not going to be the douchejumbojet that fucks this up by disappearing. I've got too much on the line. I'm scared, _too_."

Damian looks up again at that, and Jason nods. "I'm terrified, really. But all the best things I've gotten in life have come when I tried something I was shaking in my boots about. So I can't just not. I can't."

Damian screws up his face and it looks as if he's going to say something else terrible, but in the end he just nods and re-buries himself back in Bruce's shoulder. Hal claps his hands together and says, "Okay, good talk," and Tim can't help it, he snorts with laughter.

*

Jason doesn't honestly know if it's healthy that the idea that Dick is scared of losing of him makes him want to take a next step, but when he mentions it to Dinah she says, "I know it seems counterintuitive, but not everything has to be healthy. It has to be right for you. They're similar, but not equivalent."

Given this, a few days after the family meeting, when Dick has the day off, Jason calls him and says, "I want to have sex while we're scening."

"I'm…going to sound like an asshole if I ask you if you're sure, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but weirdly, I'm gonna forgive you for it. I am sure. I made myself wait seventy-two hours and talk to Dinah and everything."

Dick's laugh isn't exactly amused, but it's not sardonic. He says, "Be at my place, naked, on your knees, legs spread, hands behind your head at the foot of my bed in an hour. Key's under the mat."

Jason swallows. "Yes, sir."

It takes a lot of focus to drive himself. Jason's pretty sure Dick was counting on that as a way of keeping Jason surfaced until he got to Blüdhaven. He's in position, clothes folded neatly, fifty-two minutes after the order is given, which means he has eight minutes to anticipate.

By the time Dick walks in, Jason's so far into his head wanting to be what Dick wants, wanting to be _good_ he's practically gotten himself down on his own. He's hard enough that it has an edge of pain to it, which he likes more than he would have expected. 

Dick stands in the doorway, entirely dressed except for his bare feet and says, "Holy hell you're gorgeous. I keep thinking I imagined how gorgeous you are, but no. No, that's a real thing."

Jason can feel the flush of his skin, the way the praise pushes him down just a little bit further. He holds his position despite wanting to drop his head. This isn't about what he wants. Dick circles him, a finger tracing over flesh, before coming to stand in front of Jason. 

Dick undoes the button on his jeans and pushes them down, slowly. Kicking them aside, he tosses his shirt atop them, and shucks his briefs to stand naked in front of Jason. He touches a finger to Jason's lips and says, "Open."

Jason does. It's easy, since he wants to taste Dick anyway. He wishes he could use his hands, but Dick hasn't told him to take them down, so he doesn't. 

Dick settles his cock right inside Jason's mouth, threading his fingers with Jason's at the back of Jason's head and controlling his movement. It's not harsh, though. If anything, Jason kind of wishes he could show off, show Dick how much he can take. But Dick is saying, "Yeah, babe, just like that," and making breathy, pleased noises, and listening to those, following the direction of Dick's hands on his head, Jason slips that final inch, where it's not just that what he wants is unimportant, it's that he wants what Dick wants him to want.

Jason loses himself in the action of bringing Dick pleasure. He's so into it that when Dick withdraws from him he feels dizzy, at a loss. Dick carefully brings Jason's hands down to his knees and the rush of pins and needles is intense. Jason thinks maybe if he weren't floating so smoothly, it would hurt, but all he can feel is Dick's hands on him, massaging and easing the would-be pain into a warm, hazy sensation.

Dick says, "You're _so_ good. It's unreal, Jay." 

He tilts Jason's face up to kiss him and then pulls him to his feet, holding him steady when his legs don't want to keep him up after that much time in position. Dick says, "On the bed, face up, hands stay at your sides."

"Yes, sir." Jason does as told.

Dick says, "Hold that position. If you break, or if you come without permission, there will be punishment, Jay, and I don't want to have to punish you."

"No sir."

It's…nowhere near as easy as Jason expects it to be at first. Dick spends time teasing him to distraction, his mouth on Jason's nipples, the palms of his hands, the insides of his thighs, the line of his jaw, all the places Dick knows drive Jason crazy. But even without the threat of punishment—and it's strange how that doesn't scare Jason, how he knows it won't be anything he isn't willing to take—Jason simply wants to succeed.

He's so far down by the time Dick pushes his legs back and sucks on the rim of his ass, he's nearly beyond sexual pleasure, but not quite. He screams, but he doesn't come, holding on by the skin of his teeth and his acute desire to do as told. It's a battle, though, and when he's really and truly won it, he _is_ past thinking of any sexual pleasure. His body is simply Dick's to do with as Dick so pleases.

Dick lays Jason's legs back down, and slicks Jason's cock with lube. A second later, Dick has straddled Jason, and is sinking down onto his cock, hands on Jason's chest, Dick's head thrown back, small, ecstatic noises squeezing out of his throat. Jason's every nerve ending is alive, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that Dick is getting what he wants, that Jason's cock is Dick's toy if he so chooses. 

When Dick finally leans over, biting lightly, almost sweetly, at Jason's lip, and says, "Come, sweetheart," it's as if Dick has actually pushed a switch, and Jason's orgasm is turned on by it. It is intense by any standards, and it’s a while before he regains any meaningful sense of his surroundings.

Dick rolls off of him, evidently having finished while Jason was out of it, and collapses next to him. Having somewhat come back to earth from the pleasure, if still wholly in subspace, Jason asks, "May I clean us, sir?"

"I left washcloths on the sink."

Jason takes the muttered instruction as agreement and goes and wets down the cloths with warm water, gently taking care of Dick before seeing to himself. Then he curls up in the circle of Dick's arms.

Dick says, "I want you to tell me how each part of that worked for you, beginning to end. I'll name something, you rate it from one to ten, and tell me if there's something that can be better or different."

Jason knows the exercise will bring him back up, but it will do so quietly, easily. Dick says, "Having you wait for me."

"Eight," Jason tells him. "Helps me go down, but if it's any longer than what you did, I'm worried I might panic."

"Good to know. Having you hold positions."

Jason closes his eyes. "Ten," he says, "I'm good at it and it's a way to show off."

Dick laughs, "You're good at everything."

Jason smiles, eyes still closed. "Keep doing that and I won't come up."

"Telling you how amazing you are?"

"Yes."

"Hrm," Dick says, which is not agreement, and just continues on: "Me holding your head."

*

After Hal's emergency family meeting, Jason makes it a point to spend more time with Damian. The two of them tinker on Jason's bike together, they puzzle out how to make baklava, give Goliath and Titus a bath on the back lawn, hide out in the library, and generally just hang out around each other. Damian still throws tantrums now and then, particularly when he's tired or had a night filled with nightmares, or going through subdrop. But Jason feels like it sets them back on track for the most part.

They're in the middle of katas one morning, Jason completely unable to find the center he needs. He stops and says, "There's something I should have told you awhile ago."

Damian almost stumbles out of a pose, probably would if his physical instincts weren't so damn drilled into him. That little inability to fail, even just for a moment, brings home why Jason should have had this conversation months ago, maybe a year.

"Dami." Jason scrubs at his face. "I know you think your mom gave you away because she didn't love you, but that's not—that's not it."

Damian tenses up, and even though he has nearly two years of growth on him and the filling out of a child being fed properly and regularly, instead of having food used as a reward and rescinded as a punishment, Jason can still see that little boy he stole away with. Damian's nearly seven, and although he's starting to look his age, Jason suspects there will always be signs here and there of the training in his first four years, and the escalating abuse in his fifth. Jason fucking died and came back and he still has certain scars from childhood. Riddle him that one.

Jason gets down on his knees, not because he thinks Damian is afraid of him, but because this feels like a conversation that should be had face to face, without Damian having to peer up at him. "Your mom literally went and resurrected me from the dead because she needed someone who would be entirely within her power and she knew couldn't betray her. She went beyond the ends of the earth to get you safely to your dad because she was certain he would take care of you, would make sure you grew into the man she knew you could be."

"She hurt you," Damian spits, the easy fury of childhood combining with a clear uncertainty of exactly _how_ Talia had harmed Jason. 

"I know, bud. And I'm mad at her, okay? But I don't want you to be. What she did to me—what she did was a type of unforgivable, but it's mine to not forgive. What she did for you? That was the action of a mom who will do anything for her kid, and I think it's important for you to understand that. Just because someone can't be with you doesn't mean they don't love you."

Damian frowns, his whole face taking on the expression. He's so much of Bruce with so little of Bruce's filter. "Are we still talking about my mom?"

Jason laughs a little. "Yes, we are, I swear. Although it's worth mentioning that me leaving doesn't mean I don't love you. But this is something you should know. It's something you should keep inside of you."

"How can you love me when I'm the whole reason you were hurt?"

"Because you never asked for that. You never would have. Talia made decisions she thought she had to make. And maybe they weren't good ones, but they had reason guiding them, or, at the very least, a mother's love. None of that was on you, though. Maybe if you hadn't existed I wouldn't have been hurt, but also, D, maybe I wouldn't be alive. So if you're going to blame yourself for the bad things that happened, you have to be willing to believe you're the reason I got a second chance at all. And it's been a pretty good second chance, in the end."

There's a second of stillness and then Damian breaks, a tear rolling down his cheek and his lower lip wobbling. He wipes at the tear, and the one that follows it, angrily. "I'm going to miss you."

"Me as well, little brother. But that's why you'll have to visit, and I'll have to come back, and we'll have to make this work until I'm done with my degree and ready to take a job in Gotham."

Damian sniffs. "It's not the same."

"I know. And change sucks. But it's necessary for things to get better."

"I like things now."

Jason tugs Damian into a hug and Damian comes easily enough. Jason repeats, "I know. I know. But I'm asking you to be patient with me, give me this chance."

Damian sobs, says, "I'm going to miss you," again, like an offensive argument and permission, all at once. Jason holds on, and lets him cry it out.

*

Dick drives Jason up to Boston. It's less than three hours, but Dick takes five days off, "So we can buy you dorm furniture and stuff."

Jason bows to his expertise. Dick's done this, has the SUNY-Manhattan degree hanging in his work cubicle and as a line on his resume to prove it. Dick says, "Alfred took me, since Bruce was pretending not to be butt-hurt that I hadn't chosen GCU."

Jason blinks. "Bruce told me _not_ to choose GCU."

"Yeah, I mean, I'm told there's a lot of experimentation that goes on with oldest children. I think he thought I was, I dunno, rejecting him in some way, or something. In fairness, I did choose it in part to get out of Gotham. I needed some space to think without Bruce thinking for me."

Softly, Jason says, "I remember that part."

Dick keeps his eyes on the road but reaches out to rub at the back of Jason's neck. "Eighteen year-old me was not the most together vigilante or person on the planet. He's mostly notable for all the mistakes he made."

Jason tries not to wonder what he'd have been like if he'd lived to eighteen, rather than being resurrected at that point. "Well, you got better. A little."

Dick laughs. "Damned with faint praise."

Jason's smile is real, but also fragile. His hand is on Dick's knee and it isn't until Dick hisses—and it takes a _lot_ to get one of them, any of them, to verbally react—that Jason realizes he's squeezing, pressing his nails in. He pulls his hand away as though Dick's leg is on fire and says, "Shit, Dick, what the fuck? Why didn't you—"

"It was good until it wasn't," is what Dick says. Jason is starting to suspect Dick is a little bit of a masochist, something they should probably discuss at some point, but not where Jason needs this conversation to go.

"I'm just—I have so much to lose, right now." Jason forces himself to take a breath. His chest feels bound, tight. "The last time I left Gotham with everything to lose—"

"Wow, okay, no."

"I was making a factual statement," Jason points out. "You don't just get to say no to reality."

"I get to say no to you thinking your past defines your future, because that's some next level bullshit, Jason Peter."

It's more than a little annoying that Jason finds Dick using his first and middle name to be a turn on and he's just finding that out now. He tells himself _down boy _and says, "I don't—I don't actually think that. I'm _scared_ of that. Which I'm pretty sure is normal."__

__"Totally, but it's my job to tell you you don't need to be. Nobody was with you the last time you left Gotham with things to lose. And you sure as hell weren't headed to college. I know Gotham is…it's part of how we, as bats and birds, as family, as whatever, define ourselves. I get it. I didn't pick Blüdhaven for the scenery. I needed my own turf, but I also couldn't be that far from Gotham. Too much of it is in my blood at this point."_ _

__Dick slips his hand down to the small of Jason's back. "So I get it. But for once, let it be home, but not where you live. Let it be the place that can call you back because it means something to you. And let Boston be the start of something new for you. A four or five year vacation. Maybe six. Or, you know, if you do some grad work, more. Gotham will be there. It's literally survived an apocalyptic earthquake and being wholly shut off from the rest of the civilized world."_ _

__"And you," Jason says quietly. It's a question, regardless of his inability to put that inflection on it._ _

__"Don't you dare fucking consider this an invitation, Jay, but you could _die_ again, and I'd be waiting to yell at you and kiss you into submission when you came back again."_ _

__"No invitation to second death. Duly noted."_ _

__"Jesus, you're an asshole," Dick says, and it's so full of admiration and fondness, Jason can't help but laugh._ _

__"Guilty as charged, Officer."_ _

__Dick keeps his eyes on the road, but Jason sees one eyebrow go up. "So that's how it is, huh, you petty delinquent?"_ _

__It shouldn't be hot, wow, shouldn't be at all, but suddenly Dick's hand is covering Jason's crotch area, and Jason is intensely aware of being belted in to the passenger seat. Dick grins. "Yeah, babe, trust me, there's not a fucking thing in this world or the next that could convince me to give you up, except you pushing my ass out the door. And even then, you'd have to give me a good reason, one arguing against would be a gross thing to do."_ _

__"Dick," Jay breathes._ _

__Dick gives him one last squeeze. "This is mile 100. You're gonna hold on for me until 200."_ _

__Jason whimpers. Dick says, "Five days to remind you exactly to whom you belong."_ _

__Jason can't imagine ever forgetting, but fuck everything if he's going to give up the chance to be reminded._ _

**Author's Note:**

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